The End of All Things Magical
by The Great Hall of Misanthropy
Summary: Magic is a wonderful, terrible thing - the more you use it, the more you miss it when it's dead and gone. And while it can be used to perform wonderful feats, it may also be used to execute horrible misdeeds - such as resurrect a Dark Lord. And the Boy-Who-Lived finds himself at the centre of it all. Slightly AU. Fourth Year at Hogwarts and beyond.
1. A Small Victory, An Ominous Escape

_A/N: So here I was, desperately fishing for an idea that I could then spin a story around, and floundering about in vain. I wanted to get back to writing... something, anything... and figured I'd fall back upon the old standby - fanfiction. I'm not entirely sure how far this fandom has come, or gone, but I wanted some skin in the game again, even if I never could muster up enough reader count to convince myself I could write well._

 _And then I stumbled across this story by another author who was about ready to abandon it. He admitted his desire to leave fanfiction, so I kinda begged for his plot notes and he was kind enough to give them to me. So credit where credit is due - I owe this idea, and entire parts of this story, to this upstanding anonymous guy on the interwebs. The only reason I haven't (user-)named him so far was because of his explicit desire to NOT be associated with this story. And for those of you that do recognise the story and are here to clamour for something akin to his old creation, take a gander at my other fics. I'm not THAT sort of writer._

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J. and her army of publishers and lawyers._

* * *

 _ **A Small Victory, An Ominous Escape**_

A marriage was a bond of convenience that either engendered habitual stagnancy and plodded on forever, or a bond of love that tore itself apart as soon as the initial flood of hormones subsided to leave nothing but cold sobriety in its wake.

Narcissa Malfoy, unfortunately, was a victim of the first kind of marriage; she had not even had an opportunity to enjoy the temporary high that came with young love. Nonetheless, as she sat before her husband, every inch a demure pureblood wife, she wondered when she had snapped out of her rut long enough to pick up her husband's subtle quirks. For instance, at the moment, she knew from his darting eyes that despite his bluster, he was immensely anxious about… something.

"A finger in every pie," Lucius told her, his voice cold, "That may as well be the Malfoy family motto."

Narcissa nodded tiredly. Truth be told, she was apathetic to these catch-phrases and associated idioms her husband associated with the Malfoy name. Obviously, Lucius was attempting to convey a particular piece of information that he thought was damning enough to discuss with her, but she wished he would get to the bloody point without meandering his way through superfluous conversation.

"And so," Lucius continued, his eyes looking everywhere but at her, "I have come across a particularly troubling… rumour. Of dark... things. Disappearances. Murders. And… Draco's tales of the last few years at Hogwarts."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. Lucius finally glanced at her and winced.

"Granted," he said with a disdainful shrug that was not quite true to form, "One of those tales had to do with… my interference, but the other events…"

Narcissa shuddered inwardly. She did not quite know _what_ Lucius had done - but she knew it involved Arthur Weasley, the Boy-Who-Lived, Albus Dumbledore and... her _house-elf_. A strange coterie indeed. Nonetheless, she was quite annoyed with her husband for that particular misadventure - she had lost one of her more productive house-elves in the backwash of events set in motion by her husband. And knowing Lucius, that misadventure had probably been sinister in purpose, though his frustration after Draco's second year also betrayed the fact that his plans - whatever they were - had been thwarted.

"Draco's first year had something to do with Nicholas Flamel," Lucius said, stroking his chin, though his hand trembled with each downstroke, "And a Philosopher's Stone. I have no idea how Quirinus Quirrell got mixed up in this business, but the man was declared dead at the end of the year, according to my sources in the Ministry.

"And then there's the business last year," Lucius continued, "A werewolf teaching Defence at Hogwarts…"

Narcissa shuddered - Albus Dumbledore must truly be _senile_ if he exposed his students to such danger in a class that taught defence against dark creatures. And to think of a monster like that in the vicinity of her only son…

"... The capture and subsequent escape of Sirius Black," Lucius said and trailed off as he noticed Narcissa's cold eyes snap back towards him.

"Severus thinks the Potter brat had something to do with your cousin's escape," Lucius said mildly.

Narcissa sighed - she could not muster enough energy to be annoyed at his prodding. "He's not quite my cousin any more," she said in a bored tone, "My dear Aunt struck him off the family tree. Along with my _former_ , now estranged sister Andromeda."

"But do you notice the pattern?" Lucius pressed, "Haven't we seen it before?"

Narcissa's breath escaped her in a sudden hiss and her blood turned to ice. "He's _back_ ," she murmured and memories she strove to avoid clambered to the forefront of her mind - a cold marriage, arranged for political expedience. The fearful eyes of a muggleborn her sister had imprisoned in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. Nails dragging across bare skin as she strove in vain to dislodge Fenrir Greyback from atop her. Her fingers trembled, her muscles seized and she closed her eyes to stave off the helpless anger that rose within her.

She opened her eyes only to see Lucius nod mutely. He pinched his left sleeve with two long fingers and pulled. His pale skin was adorned with a greyish tinge, which, in a few moments, revealed itself to be a faded tattoo of a skull with a snake darting back and forth from its maw.

"It's faint now," Lucius murmured, "But it grows stronger with every passing day."

Narcissa tore her gaze away from the dreadful image to stare at her husband's face. He looked more anxious than ever.

"We… belong on his side," Lucius muttered, but the old conviction had long since fled him, "But if He does… return, we're _all_ going to be drawn in. Me. You. Draco."

Narcissa took a deep breath and her shoulders slumped. "We could beg for forgiveness," she said, "Fall on our knees, offer our family wealth…"

"He'll need more," Lucius grit out, "He'll need _much_ more. We shall need a… tribute, of sorts."

"A tribute?" Narcissa asked.

"It was a wild, stray idea," Lucius admitted, "And not quite the ideal path. But our claims that we stood for His ideals all this time, that we kept to the old ways, that we cherished His name and worked towards His return - these are empty words if they are not backed by… something."

"And that something would be…?" Narcissa pressed.

"Leverage," Lucius said, "Inside information. I can cover the Ministry, but so can others such as Thicknesse. And my pureblood circle is… limited in scope. We need _more_ than just information about a defunct Ministry - we need to convince him we've _paved_ the way towards His resurrection."

"I see," Narcissa said, her mind working furiously, "We need to know the _enemy_. Dumbledore. The legendary Order."

"And that's something I simply cannot get my hands on," Lucius admitted in a rare display of self-deprecating honesty.

"You will not use Draco," Narcissa said simply, making it both a threat and a statement of fact at the same time.

"No," Lucius said firmly and looked pointedly at her for an entire moment. Narcissa sighed.

"Me," Narcissa said, "You believe I can do this."

Lucius frowned. "I do not _believe_ ," he snarled, "But I hope you're competent enough to perform some sort of reconnaissance that we may mine when… _if_ the Dark Lord comes back. While Severus is possibly the most powerful inside source the Dark Lord could call on, if we can supplement his observations with our own… we'd have something more than just money to offer."

"I see," Narcissa said quietly, "And Lucius, I do not appreciate the condescension."

Lucius dismissed her with a casual wave that made her curl her lips in distaste.

"Besides," he added, his voice betraying his disdain, "You have _some_ womanly charm left in that aging body. Use it for something more than just bedding werewolves."

Narcissa's fist curled in anger and she felt her magic shudder around her, but she suppressed it with great effort. Snapping out at him would do her no favours in this life.

"Very well," she snarled through gritted teeth.

"Getting you into Hogwarts should not be too difficult," Lucius said, apparently relieved at the idea that he had a definite goal to work towards, "I have too much pull with the Board for them to deny me. Yes… this should work…"

Lucius got up and walked away from her, still deep in thought. Narcissa merely pursed her lips and glared at her husband's retreating back. She cursed her dead mother thricefold for succumbing to Aunt Wahlburga's efforts to marry her off to the loathsome creature she called a _husband_.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was irritated and annoyed - granted, his mood had deteriorated ever since he had woken up in the morning and glanced at his left forearm, but he was particularly vexed as he was ushered into a cramped Conference Room within the Ministry, as far away from the Office of the Minister of Magic as the Weasleys were beneath him, only to be stymied by the sight of the King of the Muggle-lovers himself - Albus Dumbledore. And worse, the grandfatherly fool was the only man in the room.

With great effort, Lucius managed to stifle a disgusted sneer and inwardly cursed his decision to arrive at the conference early.

He sat himself down as far away from the Headmaster as possible, but ' _as far as possible_ ' was not quite as distant as he would have liked, seeing as how he had been ushered into an ridiculously small and spartan room, fit rather for a jury than a meeting of such import. Then again, Ludovic Bagman had organised the meeting - praise be to the man who could convince Ludo that the best place to hold a Ministry meeting was in a space larger than a Quidditch locker room. Lucius glanced at his timepiece and noticed that the dials were about half an hour away from his lunch time.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, reminding himself of exactly why he was here - for his son. He was here so that his son, his _legacy_ , would have a chance to compete in an extremely rare tournament that may never be held again if his deductions about the future were correct.

Lucius inhaled and turned to the side, but was relieved to see that the old coot was still humming a disgustingly perky tune to himself and had barely noticed the Malfoy Patriarch's presence.

And to add to his sense of relief, the door burst open and an entourage, comprising of the Minister and other Heads of Ministry, streamed into the Conference Room. Lucius had to make room for Bartemius Crouch and Ludo Bagman to either side, and though he wished he had more space to himself, the two men seemed to be uncomfortable enough to make him feel a bit better about himself.

A brief chat with the Minister later, the conference truly began. The first and only point of order was, of course, the tournament. After Crouch's terse introduction to the tournament, and before Ludo could start on a boring speech about the tasks that the tournament entailed - something Lucius had heard already - he bulldozed his way into the conversation.

"Personally," Lucius said coldly, "I believe this a ludicrous arrangement. This is not a World Cup or a Duelling Championship. It is a _Triwizard_ _Tournament_ , intended for the students to compete in – its very purpose is to encourage a fair and equitable contest among the largest and greatest European schools of magic."

Bartemius Crouch made a sudden movement, as if he were about to cut Lucius off, but the Malfoy Patriarch pressed on.

"Gentlemen," he said, looking around the table imperiously, "You have to admit that this does not make much sense - we cannot hold a magical tournament meant specifically for students and disqualify ninety percent of the very same students because of some flimsy idea of _safety_. If the tournament is indeed for people of age, why call it a tournament for students at all? Why not just abandon the charade and make it a tournament for adults?"

"I agree," said Pius Thickness, Head of the International Magical Office of Law, and more importantly - a member of the _old_ crowd. He bestowed Lucius with an inscrutable glance. "I suppose it is a little bit like holding a Hogwarts Quidditch Cup and then barring all but Seventh Years."

"And yet," Crouch said irritably, "The Quidditch Cup _does_ disqualify First Years."

" _Some_ First Years," Lucius said, injecting as much contempt as he could into his voice, "The privileged ones, apparently, get away with breaking that rule under Dumbledore's tutelage." Lucius glared at the old coot, but Dumbledore merely gave him a benign stare.

"No one is denying the fact that there cannot be _some_ age barrier," Thickness interjected, attempting to smoothe over the conversation, "The Quidditch Cup does disbar First Years, but First Years are not an overwhelming majority of the student population of Hogwarts. In this case, we're dismissing all but twenty students from a tournament that claims to cater to _all_ students."

"Indeed," Lucius said, "My recommendation is fairly predictable, I'm afraid. But I have never shied away from the _old_ ways - I suggest we go back to the original format of the Tournament. Fourteen was the age limit the founders of the Triwizard Tournament thought appropriate and I see no reason to change that; most Arithmancers agree that fourteen is the age where one's magical ability truly matures and when a man realises his true magical potential.

"In fact, this recent fixation on seventeen as the age bar is truly bewildering, to my eyes, and insultingly… _muggle_ , in its sentiments."

Lucius' voice turned venomous once more; and he smirked as his words had the desired effect. The table seemed to stiffen, and quite a few of the muggle-lovers around the table seemed immensely uncomfortable with the flow of conversation.

"And do not forget the powerful magic that the Goblet is infused with," Thickness added, "It is… unlikely that the Goblet would nominate an unworthy candidate for the tournament."

"Oh please," Crouch spat, "We're not so daft as to believe Lucius is doing this for the vast majority of the student population at Hogwarts, are we? His son turns fourteen this year, does he not?"

Lucius looked down his nose at the Head of International Magical Cooperation. "Yes, he does," Lucius said evenly, "And yes, I would not deny that my son has a lot to do with opening my eyes to the injustice that we seek to inflict upon the students of Hogwarts.

"Then again," Lucius said, his voice growing stronger with every passing word, "I do take an active interest in my son's upbringing. Unlike some… others I can name."

He was rewarded with the sight of an angry flush creeping up Crouch's face.

"Gentlemen," Cornelius Fudge interjected at last and Lucius bestowed him with a beatific smile. Fudge seemed to inflate before his very eyes at Lucius' glance of approval and the Malfoy Patriarch smirked inwardly; the Minister of Magic was nothing more than a blustering fool who sought to surround himself with yes-men - a trait that could easily be exploited by a skilled manipulator.

"I'm afraid I agree with Lucius," Fudge said at last, drawing another smile from Lucius, "Barty… er… Lucius represents both the Board of Governors, as well as the parents of Hogwarts. It is well within his rights to take his son's welfare into consideration for this particular discussion."

Crouch's lips thinned, but the man nodded tightly.

"If I may interject," came the mild voice of Albus Dumbledore, making Lucius gnash his teeth, "I believe I can see where Mister Malfoy is coming from. However, I am still concerned about the safety of all of the students - seventeen _and_ below. The tasks - or at least the draft outlines we all received - are worrisome, to say the least."

Crouch sighed tiredly and Fudge rubbed the rim of his bowler hat with a frown.

"For those of you that missed the previous meeting," Ludo interjected, "Albus had… er… concerns about the possible… exploitation of sentient creatures for the purpose of the Tournament."

Lucius huffed, disgusted - just when he thought the muggle-loving idiot could not sink any lower…

"Sapient beings, Ludo," Dumbledore interjected, "I do not approve of using nesting dragons and live eggs for the First Task. Nor do I believe the Merpeople would think any better of us if we force them to cede territory for what they would no doubt see as a human _game_. And the third task is mind-boggling in its attempt to alienate the various magical beings that live alongside us. Live acromantula? _Trolls_?

"These are living, breathing, self-aware _beings_ who could be hurt during the course of the tournament. And beings that could, in turn, inflict injury upon our students. I cannot stress how much I disagree with this strange notion that sapients may be treated as playthings simply because they are not _human_ \- it is a strangely anthropocentric point of view that belongs in an entirely different _era_."

Crouch shrugged wearily; and for once, Lucius could sympathise - Dumbledore had just uttered the most moronic words he had even heard from a grown wizard. If trolls were _self-aware_ , then he was house-elf with a tea cozy wrapped around his neck.

"I take no pleasure in repeating myself," Dumbledore said, and Lucius barely suppressed his snort. "But I would like to remind this committee that we are witches and wizards. We may craft challenging tasks without availing ourselves of the abilities of abused and oft-belittled beings."

Lucius rubbed his forehead tiredly, though he perked up as Dumbledore's idiotic sentiments finally registered in his mind.

"Now _there's_ an idea," Lucius said sharply. Nearly the entire table gaped at him - or perhaps they were shocked by the idea that Lucius Malfoy would ever agree with Albus Dumbledore.

Lucius continued, "I can see a way out. A way to kill two doxies with a single jinx. We may need to go back to the drawing board, but we're perfectly capable of commissioning tasks that do not depend on the unpredictability of… ah, _beings_." Lucius spat out the last word.

"We could re-draw the tasks and devise them to be more… controlled, while still maintaining the challenge and thrill of the competition. And once the unpredictability, brought on by beasts such as trolls is torn away, I see no reason why we cannot invite everyone above the age of fourteen to participate in the tournament."

Fudge fiddled with his hat again, though he cast a quick glance at his Undersecretary. "Time for a vote, gentlemen," Fudge called out to the table at large. Lucius smirked as Dolores Umbridge's high, shrill voice initiated the voting process.

* * *

Grime-coloured walls surrounded the lone woman who braced herself against the dank stone that masqueraded as a floor. The distant roar of sea against shore could barely be heard through the woman's panting; her muscles trembled as she strove to keep herself upright using merely her hands and her legs. A tiny slit in her cell betrayed the presence of an entire world outside, but the woman barely glanced at it.

 _One._

The woman shoved at the ground, her mind blaring with rage, and her arms propelled her away with the force of her push. With a gesture that betrayed her athletic ability, the woman clapped her arms as her upper torso rose, only to bring them slamming back into the ground as she swung back into position once more.

 _Two_.

Another push, _clap_ and then back to the grind.

 _Three_.

Her trembling muscles could no longer hold her up - she fell, face-first, into the ground and her chin bounced painfully off the wet, grungy stone with a sharp _crack_. She let it rest there for a while and reflected upon her past glories - there had once been a time when her lithe, athletic body could handle this task with ease, but her present prison had a way of leeching away at her strength, depriving her of her once intimidating and predatory physical presence. She was a skeletal husk, as far removed from the beauty of her past as her prison was from civilisation.

All she had was hope - hope due to the fact that she still drew breath. And hope due to the fact that she had once served a man who would be _God_.

And that was when a fell stillness crept through the air, stifling her with its mere presence. The woman stiffened, wondering if the prison patrol was here, ahead of the scheduled time, but she dismissed that possibility. The dementors never did pay her an unscheduled visit - they were on a tight, if figurative, leash held by the human prison guards.

And if the dementors were here on an irregular patrol, it was hardly a good sign. It either meant that their leash was off - which, in retrospect, _could_ be construed as a good sign - or their current masters had decided on an unsavory course of action that she was powerless to stop.

She hated this feeling… this _weakness_. She edged towards the prison bars and peered into the corridor beyond, her eyes gleaming unnaturally in the light of the lone torch.

The light grew dimmer. The woman braced herself, but the creeping darkness was not accompanied by the horribly familiar wintry sting that the dementors were capable of.

The creeping darkness was unnatural, but not quite the looming cloud of doom that the fell creatures lugged around with them. It _crawled_ across the dank stone and grimy walls, snaking and clawing its way towards her cell.

The woman giggled. The misshapen, clawing darkness was almost… _cute_. Like a weird, but adorable little spider with skin the shade of a starless night. She cooed at it and her hand snapped out through the bars as she beckoned it closer.

The darkness paused at the soft purr that escaped her mouth and seemed to contract inwards, as if it were a living, breathing thing. After a moment of silence, where she stared awkwardly at the black form, it began to crawl forwards once more.

It paused again, barely five feet away from her cell, and dispersed into cloudy black smoke. The inky wisps snuck into her cell, and began to coalesce into a dark blob. The woman giggled again - the blob looked almost _human_ if she squinted just the right way.

As if the darkness had read her mind, the blob _exploded_ to reveal a striking young man with rather sharp features and scraggly brown her.

 _Oh, that's just fantastic_ , the woman thought sardonically to herself, _You're imagining things again_.

"You're _gone_ ," the woman rasped hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper, "Dead."

The man barely glanced at her; he merely muttered to himself as he slowly removed a very familiar ring from the third finger on his right hand. Despite herself, the woman was annoyed.

 _Bah_ , she thought, _Insanity is overrated if your hallucinations can't even talk back to you._

She waited for a while for her hallucination to stop mumbling to itself, but her patience frayed and she gave up on it. " _Lady Death, Lady Death_ ," she rasped to herself, remembering a little ditty from her childhood, " _Catch me while I still draw breath_."

"Well," the hallucination said at last, in a voice that was much stronger than she would have have given it credit for, "She didn't quite manage to catch _me_."

She merely blew a raspberry at it and crouched in a corner, clutching her arms around herself. She had no use for hallucinations that lied, either.

She yelped as she felt a pinch on her left bicep. She glared to the side, only to gape at the man, who was now barely two feet away from her. His arm was extended outward, and he was actually _pinching_ her.

She snarled at him, but the hallucination pulled up her ragged left sleeve, caught her wrist, and turned her forearm up at her.

She stared.

Blood seemed to spurt through her body once more and a thrill of wild cheer effervesced up from her very gut; _hope_ filled her once more.

He was back. The snake and the skull on her forearm were visible once more.

She looked up at the man piteously. "Where… where is he?" she asked and looked around wildly, as if she expected her Master to emerge from a dark corner of the cell.

"He isn't here," the man said, enunciating every syllable with familiar emphasis, "He has not recovered entirely, I'm afraid. For even a _god_ needs his rest."

The woman slumped, and her eyes must have betrayed her anxiety for the man said, in a reassuring voice, "Even a resting god is powerful. After all, I _am_ standing in the most airtight prison known to man. By _His_ grace."

"How?" she asked plaintively.

The man held out his closed right fist and uncurled his fingers, revealing an ornate golden ring with an enormous, black stone glinting on its crown - it had looked familiar before, and now, she knew its true identity. It seemed to radiate an ominous, powerful tenebrosity.

"He gave it to _you_ ," she said, her hoarse voice betraying her wonder… and envy.

"To save _you_ ," the man replied, "To reward you for your loyalty. And your faith."

Her heart soared and she knelt upon the ground in religious supplication. Tears of happiness squeezed themselves from her eyes and plopped onto the cold, wet stone beneath her.

She looked up again, eyes shining, and saw the man unfurl a bag from his robe pocket. He pointed his wand at the bag and muttered a few select words - the bag drew in on itself and vanished into ether. An unconscious, extremely skinny brunette dropped from its depths.

"A squib I picked up in Albania," the man said, "Resembled you enough for our purposes. The dementors don't really care about what someone looks like as long as they have something to feast on - a soul was in this cell, and a soul shall remain in this cell."

"A replacement," the woman breathed, "For me."

The man nodded.

"But they'll know," the woman rasped again, "They'll know when they…" She gestured vaguely at the prone brunette.

"An _imperius_ is a wonderful thing," the man said ruefully, "She shall get up tomorrow, and claw at her face until she dies. When she's done, the Ministry won't be able to tell her face apart from mush."

The woman giggled. "But they'll still _know_ ," she rasped.

"No," the man said firmly, "You underestimate His reach. And my father's."

The woman flinched violently. "Your father…?" she tried to ask, "But he… was not one of us?"

The man waved her concerns away. "He is now," he said, though his voice betrayed a raw sourness that had not been there before.

He shook his head, as if trying to wash away lingering, unfinished thoughts, looked at her sharply and asked, his voice simmering with passion, "Do you remember the cause? The _true_ cause? Not the front, the _purpose_?"

She glared at him, incensed that he could even accuse her of a lapse of memory so crucial and fundamental to her very being.

"I do," she snarled, "The last line of defence. For our ways. For our _world_. And the first line of offence. Towards heaven. _Godhood_."

Bartemius Crouch, Junior, smiled. "Indeed. Come, Bella," he said gently, holding out his palm, and Bella noticed that the ring was on his finger once more. "Let us go back to where we belong."

Bellatrix Lestrange nodded happily at the man and clasped his hand firmly. The man murmured a select few words. The ring in his hand pulsed and engulfed them in impenetrable, malleable darkness. It cradled them - the most faithful of their order - and hemmed them in protectively as they stepped right through the bars of the cell, and towards salvation.

Bellatrix smiled. Azkaban fell away and the world beckoned, ripe for _fun_.

* * *

Lucius whistled a jaunty, peppy tune as he left the cramped confines of the so-called _conference room_. Granted, Ludo had looked less than happy at the idea of going back to the drawing board, so to speak, and coming up with a new blueprint for the Triwizard Tournament, but Lucius had achieved his purpose - at the very least, he had succeeded in opening up the Triwizard Tournament to half the student population of magical Europe. And at best, he had created an opportunity for his powerful, handsome heir to come into his own during the course of the oldest inter-school tournament in the world.

The Malfoy bloodline had yet to be spurred to the heights that it _deserved_ to achieve. While the return of his former Master had once again returned to the forefront of his mind, like a dark looming shadow that crept up on him when his mind was idle, the smaller victories were often the ones he savoured most. The effort involved was typically miniscule, and the manipulation almost unseemly for such a small victory, but the feeling of accomplishment - for him _and_ his son - were more than reward enough to bring a smile to his face.


	2. The New Professor

_A/N: Quite a few of the five people who've read this story have asked about the pairing. It's Harry/Fleur. And thank you to the four people who reviewed! Reviews are great and I feed off 'em.  
_

 _ **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or associated characters, which all belong to J K Rowling. This work is not intended for profit. And thank you, once again, to the original author of this story.  
_

* * *

 _ **The Death of All Magic**_

 _An expose that uncovers a startling and horrific truth about our world_

 _By Rita Skeeter_

 _Three generations from now, we shall all be Squibs._

 _Depending on who you are, the previous sentence is either a chilling pronouncement, or a hilariously sensationalist joke. It is hard enough convincing your everyday wizard or witch that that doxies are not quite the same as fairies; try convincing them about the notion of vanishing magic and they are as likely to laugh in your face and call you crazy as they are to believe you._

 _And yet, here it is - the unvarnished truth._

 _Perhaps we should start at the beginning. In November 1973, a few years after the muggles had landed a man on the moon, the magical world surmised that we could enter the space race, so to speak, with far fewer resources expended. Space exploration was never quite a particularly persistent desire for the magical world, but a few French and Chinese Arithmancers banded together and snuck a paired magical scope (linked to another scope that would remain on Earth) on board a muggle mission to Mercury - the Mariner Ten._

 _The scope on Earth, linked as it was, with powerful charms, to the scope on board the muggle spacecraft, provided the Arithmancers with periodic readings of magical potential in space. And they discovered a startling fact about the universe - magic grew weaker the further the linked scope travelled from Earth. And eventually, just after the Mariner Ten flew past Venus - a pit-stop that the muggles called a "fly-by" on its way to Mercury - the signal failed entirely. Note that the time between the launch, when the scopes were linked, to its fly-by of Venus was about four months. A charm that links two magical scopes typically lasts decades._

 _In simpler terms, magic is limited to Earth. At some point away from Earth, magic ceases to exist._

 _This was not the only magical mission of its kind. The same group of Chinese and French Arithmancers gave the experiment yet another go - in August 1975, another linked scope, this time with several failsafes, and even more powerful charms, was smuggled onto the Viking One, a muggle craft to Mars. This time, the magical scope was travelling in the other direction, away from the sun._

 _It failed again, just as the Viking One landed on Mars. Once may be an error, but twice was too much of a coincidence. Earth was special. Magic was limited to Earth._

 _The lead Arithmancer within the group that carried out these missions - Alain Berger - was the originator of a quote that is quite often used in Arithmantic circles, "The numbers don't lie, and the magic associated with such numbers is immense - but not as immense as the ability of human beings to tumble happily towards their own doom."_

 _The statement was an aphorism, but its strength was further proved with subsequent experiments by Arithmancers around the world. Viking Two, Phobos One, Phobos Two, Pioneer One, Pioneer Two, Venera Eleven, Venera Thirteen, Vega One, Vega Two, all the way to Galileo. These were not mere innocuous, if highly ambitious, muggle space missions. All of the muggle craft carried scopes, affixed in place by various Arithmancers around the world. Some individual, some with local Ministry backing._

 _All came back with the same answer. At some point away from Earth, magic failed._

 _And to be fair, this would hardly be a bad thing - wizards and witches had shown no inclination to flee into space, not when there were such magnificent wonders to be had here. If magic was localised around Earth, then so be it - if the Earth were some nexus that spawned magic, then so be it. The universe, however, was not so obliging._

 _The first scope aboard the Mariner Ten failed nearly sixty million kilometres from Earth - a reassuringly phenomenal distance. The second scope aboard the Viking One failed fifty million kilometres from Earth - a few Arithmancers surmised that the reach of magic around the Earth was perhaps asymmetrical; it extended further in one direction than the other. It was a truth that several others accepted - a reassuring truth._

 _The scope on board the Viking Two - which followed a similar path to Viking One - failed forty-nine million kilometres from Viking One. While the reduction from fifty to forty nine does not seem like much, one should not forget to multiply by a million - one million kilometres is a phenomenal distance by itself, and the shrinking reach of magic was slightly alarming. The Pioneer One scope failed at forty-two million kilometres from Earth, and Pioneer Two failed at forty million kilometres. The last such scope, inserted on board the Galileo, a muggle craft to Jupiter, sixteen years after the Mariner Ten, failed ten million kilometres from Earth._

 _Magic is retreating from the universe. There was no denying that particular truth._

 _And yet, ten million kilometres seemed like a long distance - there's still a large radius for magic to retreat into. Fifty million kilometres, though, is an even longer distance - and that retreat has taken sixteen years; the reach of magic beyond Earth has fallen at at the rate of three million kilometres a year over the last two decades._

 _Last year, a group of researchers at the Indian equivalent of our Department of Mysteries finally seemed to break free of the need to smuggle magical scopes onto muggle craft. They enchanted a sturdy Comet Two-Sixty with several protective charms, affixed a modern equivalent of the magical scope, albeit with several additional diagnostic charms, protections and wards, and sent it rocketing away from Earth._

 _Every single component failed eight hundred thousand kilometres away from Earth. There is now no question in any educated Arithmancer's mind - only the marching drumbeats of doom._

 _Fortunately for us, though, there is some respite from a bleak future without magic - the rate of descent for magic has slowed. We still have time._

 _And even if magic disappears from the world, and ley lines vanish entirely, Arithmancers predict that we may have just enough latent magic on Earth, trapped in runic artefacts, in ancient tombs and monuments, to sustain one more generation._

 _At the current rate of attrition, three generations from now, we shall all be Squibs._

 _The worst part is that after all this time, after all these experiments, after all these observations by the foremost minds of our age, the Ministries have done absolutely nothing about it. No concerted attempts have been made to stem this implosion of magic itself. No effort has been made towards finding out the why, the how, and methods of prevention._

 _All our Ministries have done with alacrity is campaign for the next vote. We would rather march toward our own doom, oblivious and naive, than do something about it. If Alain Berger were still alive, he would be both satisfied and saddened at how true his aphorism turned out to be.'_

* * *

 _Beginning of Semester, Hogwarts Express_

Harry carefully smoothed over the copy of the Daily Prophet he had read through and handed it back to Hermione, who was watching him with a frown on her face. The familiar rumble of the Hogwarts Express, barreling underneath them, was strangely soothing.

"That's… a disquieting article," he said, searching for the right words to describe his thoughts.

Hermione merely nodded. "I'm barely into my fourth year," she said, "I'm barely discovering this world. I'd hate to see it go so soon."

Ron, who had been giving Neville a play-by-play breakdown of the Quidditch World Cup, paused in his conversation to stare at them. He glanced at the Daily Prophet in Hermione's hands and groaned.

"Oh, don't tell me you believe her," Ron said, "She's _Rita Skeeter_. All she writes is poison. You saw how she turned Dad into the wrong sort of bloke after the Cup."

"Yes, well," Hermione said haughtily, "She's provided _proof_ , Ron. Hard-to-deny evidence."

"Yeah, but how believable is her so-called proof?" the gangly redhead asked, "She's _Rita Skeeter_. Give her a gnome and she'll make it grow wings, call it a fairy and try and pin it on the Ministry."

"Is that a real saying?" Harry asked skeptically.

"No, it's not," Hermione said, just as Ron nodded. They glared at each other.

Harry leaned back in his seat, bracing himself against the inevitable argument, only for the compartment door to slam open.

"Sorry," Ginny said brightly, stepping into the compartment and glancing around at the empty space, "Eloise Midgen's making out with some bloke from Ravenclaw… in our compartment. So… er… we wanted to sit somewhere else for a bit."

Ron shuddered. "Yeah," he said darkly, "I would _not_ want to see Eloise Midgen making out either."

" _Ron_ ," Hermione said indignantly and slapped the redhead across the arm.

Ginny shook her head. "What I meant, _Ronald_ , was that we decided to move compartments in order to give the couple a bit of privacy. As opposed to being juvenile twits who think kissing a girl will give you cooties."

"Oi!" Ron protested, "I don't have anything against snogging. It's just that… y'know… Eloise Midgen and that weird mole on her nose that makes me want to retch."

Hermione smacked him on the arm again.

"Anyway," Ginny said loudly, trying and failing to mask her embarrassment, "I told Luna she could tag along."

"Oh, that's just brilliant," Ron mumbled as Hermione scooted over to make space for the new arrivals.

"Hello," floated a dreamy voice as a pretty girl with protuberant eyes and dirty blonde hair walked into the compartment and seated herself down beside Harry, much to the disappointment of Ginny Weasley, who was forced to make do with a seat next to Neville.

Harry glanced at Luna and gave her the barest of smiles.

"You're Harry Potter," she said, her voice bereft of all emotion. An awkward pause followed and Harry felt like he had to say something to break it.

"I… er… am?" he said, "And you're… er… Luna."

"Luna Lovegood," the girl said brightly.

Harry kept his face straight with great effort, though a pinch from Hermione helped tremendously as his lips threatened to break out into a smile. He held out his hand to the girl, who stared at it for a while. Harry shrugged and dropped his arm. He looked to the side to see how the others in the compartment were taking to the new girl; Neville and Hermione looked as confused as he was. Ron, on the other hand, just looked like he was bracing himself for an onslaught of… something. Ginny was shaking with what Harry could only assume was silent laughter.

Fortunately for him, Luna turned to her next victim. "You're Hermione Granger," she told the bushy-haired girl sitting opposite her. Hermione looked nonplussed.

"Hello Ronald," Luna continued, still oblivious to the stares she was receiving - Harry was beginning to suspect that 'oblivious' may just be Luna's default mode.

"Hey, Loony," Ron said with false cheer, and winced as Ginny kicked his leg. "Uh… Luna," Ron quickly corrected.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron, who shrugged and said in a dull voice, "Loon… er… _Luna_ used to come over to our place all the time when we were kids. Her father lives right on top of that little hill… y'know, the one next to the apple orchard."

"The Rook's Nest," Luna chirped, her voice bright as she turned to face Harry again. And worse, she proceeded to stare at him as he squirmed uncomfortably.

"Er…" Harry said, desperately fishing for a topic. He noticed the magazine clutched in the blonde girl's right hand and asked, "Is that an interesting magazine?"

Luna looked at the magazine in her arm and then held it out to show it to Harry.

 _The Quibbler_ , the magazine read.

"Interesting isn't quite the right word," Hermione interjected with a snort, even as Ron and Ginny shook their heads frantically at her, "It's _trash_. Full of ridiculous conspiracy theories, written by idiots."

Ron palmed his face. "Excuse _me_ ," Luna said coolly, clutching the magazine to her chest, "My father is the _editor_."

Hermione stared at the blonde girl for a moment and flushed. "I… er…" she said, frantically trying to erase the last two seconds, "It's… still an… interesting magazine though."

Harry grimaced at the weak attempt to backtrack.

"The Quibbler is a perfectly serious magazine that collates articles from various persons of outstanding reputation. Gilderoy Lockhart once wrote in our magazine before he was impregnated by a snottlewurt."

A peal of laughter burst forth from Ginny before the redhead stifled it with her fist. Hermione seemed to shrink into her seat and Ron groaned into his palm, which was still draped over his face.

Harry, on the other hand, tried really hard to ignore the idea that Gilderoy Lockhart was apparently a person of _outstanding reputation_.

"Impregnated by a… er… what?" he asked blankly.

"A snottlewurt," Luna repeated with a perfectly serious lilt to her voice, "The only animals in the magical world capable of impregnating male wizards with these long, thick, tubular…"

"Okay," Ron cut in sharply, "We do _not_ want to know."

Luna halted her explanation abruptly and turned to stare at Ron, who promptly grumbled and looked away. Harry had no idea if that was his cue to laugh, or thump his head against the window.

Before he could come to a conclusion, however, the door to the compartment slammed open once more. Harry looked towards the door dully and groaned as he saw an annoyingly familiar face present itself, flanked by two more highly unwelcome faces.

"Oh for the love of…" Hermione muttered.

"What are you three idiots doing here?" Ron asked loudly, "Is the Hogwarts Express Douche Patrol part of the regular Hogwarts Express iterinary?"

"Very clever, Weasel," Malfoy said snootily. He looked around the compartment imperiously. "Potty, mudblood," he said cheerily, nodding at Harry and Hermione while ignoring Neville and the third years. Hermione flinched, but straightened up in her seat and glared at Malfoy.

"The only reason I… deigned to grace this filthy compartment with _my_ presence," the blonde boy said, ignoring Ron's incredulous snort, "... is because I feel sorry for all of you. So incredibly, entirely sorry to see you all fall flat on your faces this year when you realise how pathetic you three really are."

"Uh huh," Harry said dully.

"Because _this_ year, we'll have a _real_ contest of magic and you all shall know what true power means," Malfoy said with a flourish of his hands.

"Er… what?" Harry asked, bewildered at Malfoy's incomprehensible bluster. They glared at each other for a moment.

"You don't know?" Malfoy breathed, breaking the silence. His voice then pulsed with delight. "You don't _know_?" he asked again, his eyes lighting up at the idea that he had access to information that was undisclosed to the Golden Trio, "The Boy-Who-Lived, the Know-It-All and the idiot with a father at the Ministry. And you three don't know?"

"Either tell us what we don't know, Malfoy," Ron snarled, "Or get the hell out of our compartment."

"You three don't know," Malfoy crowed, "This is fantastic. Weasel, your father is in the _Ministry_. Oh, wait, he must not be high enough on the social ladder to be _informed_."

"As opposed to your Dad who has his lips attached to the Minister's _pucker_?" Ginny snarled, startling all of them.

"Oh great," Malfoy said, "The Weasels have a little girl too. Though she's not bad-looking, is she, boys?"

Crabbe and Goyle leered at Ginny, who glared back at them. Harry, however, leapt up to restrain Ron, who had exploded out of his sea, only to grasp at thin air. Ron rushed Draco, who tumbled back out the door and into the aisle outside. Crabbe made a sudden movement towards Ron, but Ginny's wand whipped out and the burly boy fell onto the carpeted floor, howling as he clutched at his nose. Goyle pounced upon the redheaded girl, but Harry caught the ogre-like teen around his shoulder and pushed, slamming him into the compartment wall next to Neville.

"Don't," Harry snarled, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Goyle. He glanced at Ron and Draco, who were trading punches as they rolled in the aisle outside, but was forced to duck as Goyle recovered and swung at him. Harry lashed out with his leg and Goyle tumbled towards the door, clutching at his midsection. Harry then burst upward, slamming his elbow into Goyle's nose and the boy reeled, stumbling back into the aisle. Harry stepped outside, his wand tip blazing as he looked at a scuffling Ron and Malfoy, intending to separate the two and stop the fight.

"Enough," came a soft, yet strangely powerful female voice from his right.

The two boys on the floor paused and rolled away from each other, panting indignantly. Goyle stumbled away from the wall he had been using to stand upright, while Crabbe crawled into the aisle, still clutching at his nose and away from a very smug-looking Ginny Weasley.

Harry pivoted around, only to witness a tall, blonde woman with sharp features glaring imperiously down at all of them.

"Care to explain the sequence of events that led to this… incident?" the woman asked, an open palm gesturing with simultaneous grace and disdain at the young men sprawled in the aisle. Harry merely shrugged; the woman looked very familiar, though Harry could not quite bring himself to place her at the moment.

"Mother," Draco wheezed, rubbing at a bruise on his jaw, "Er… I mean, Professor Malfoy, I was just…"

He trailed away as the woman took a step towards them. It took a moment for Harry to register what Malfoy had said, but when the words did impress themselves upon his brain, he gaped at the woman. He sensed rather than saw Ron draw up to him and glare at the imposing witch. And then, Harry remembered where he had seen her before - the Top Box during the Quidditch World Cup. She was Malfoy's _mother_.

She stalked towards the group, raised her wand daintily and pointed it at a whimpering Crabbe. The boy finally stopped clutching at his nose as whatever Ginny had inflicted upon him subsided with a pulse of the pureblood woman's magic. She then cast healing spells at both Malfoy and Goyle, whose bruises and minor cuts healed up immediately.

"Mister Goyle," Malfoy's mother said steadily, "That broken nose needs looking at. I've set the bone back, but I'd like Madam Pomfrey to take a look at it nonetheless. You will show yourself to her office once we reach the school."

Goyle nodded meekly and Harry was surprised to note that Crabbe, too, looked downright demure in front of the woman, while Malfoy merely gave them all a smug look. Harry grit his teeth, but strove to maintain his composure until he found out what the woman was doing here.

"Mrs Malfoy?" Hermione asked, stepping out from the compartment, and continued, as if she had read his mind, "What… are you doing on the train?"

"Going to Hogwarts. Because I shall be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts this year," Malfoy's mother said primly. Both Ron and Harry gaped at her, incredulous at the idea that the woman who raised Draco Malfoy would be allowed to teach Defence against the Dark Arts to a bunch of young students.

"Now," the woman said, "It is my first day as a Professor at this… prestigious institution, so I shall desist from handing out punishments to those of you that were involved in this foolishness. Do _not_ mistake this act of mercy for weakness. The next time I see _any_ of you in an unauthorised duel of any sort, I shall personally make sure that you are assigned a detention for the rest of your year.

"Are we clear?" she asked, looking around the aisle with a cold glare.

All of them nodded, though Harry found himself a bit stiff-necked as he glared at the woman. She met his gaze evenly for a moment, before she turned on her heel and marched away. Malfoy and his goons walked in the other direction, though Malfoy paused long enough to smirk at them.

Harry and Ron crossed over the aisle back into their cozy compartment; both Ginny and Neville appeared a bit shocked at the brazen display of aggressiveness on their parts, while Hermione merely appeared blase and disenchanted. She cast a charm of some sort at Ron, whose bruises cleared up ever so slightly. Hermione frowned and said, "You need to see Madam Pomfrey."

"Yeah, yeah," Ron mumbled and slumped onto the seat next to Neville. Harry walked over to the window and sat himself down in front of Luna, who stared at him in an expectant manner.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled. The girl merely shrugged and resumed perusing her magazine, which was held upside down in her dainty hands.

"Morgana's _tits_!" Ron snarled, provoking an indignant " _Ron!"_ from Hermione, "Malfoy's mum is a Professor at Hogwarts! Worse, she's a _Defence_ Professor. And we thought we had the worst of it with Quirrell."

Harry shrugged; he did not think he would be too surprised if there were a former Dark Lord sticking out of the back of her immaculately coiffured head.

"I'm… not sure we should be judging her before she's even started teaching us," Hermione said, though her heart clearly wasn't in her statement.

Ron scoffed. "Right," he said sarcastically, "Because the Malfoys being out in force may be a _good_ thing. Totally on the side of the angels, that family." His eyes widened as he struck upon an epiphany, and he groaned, "We're never going to win the Cup again!"

Harry could not quite suppress his snicker as Hermione said hotly, "Because that's _totally_ what matters. The _Cup_."

"Just saying," Ron said, holding his hands up, "It's bad enough with Snape docking points off us with every second class; add Malfoy's _mum_ to the mix… and, well… we'll be lucky if we don't dip into negative points."

"You can't get negative points," Hermione sniffed, "Besides, I'm far more concerned about the fact that we usually find ourselves in certain… situations every year at Hogwarts - and the Defence Professor is usually right there in the middle of it all."

The bushy-haired girl glanced at Ginny and Neville uncertainly, who seemed to be hanging on to her every word at the moment, though Ginny looked a bit pale at her last pronouncement.

Ron seemed to notice his sister's apprehension. "And the Malfoys, sure as hell, were in the middle of that whole… business in Second Year."

Ginny let out a shuddering breath.

"We'll keep an eye on her," Ron told his sister, though his voice was far from reassuring.

"Personally," Hermione said quietly, "I'm wondering how Dumbledore even agreed to this whole… thing."

* * *

 _The First Day of Class, Hogwarts_

' _When the world's on the brink, when good goes down the kitchen sink, when evil is near, the man for the job is Wendel the Weird_ ,' or so the silly refrain went - part of a theme song for a singing comic book series in the eighteen sixties that Albus Dumbledore had once been a fan of.

Although, Albus Dumbledore wished the silly refrain would not apply to him as often as it did these days. The ancient wizard eyed the mantlepiece clock and watched the seconds tick by as he waited to chair a meeting he had prayed he would never attend again. He sighed and shook his head, reflecting upon mundane, lighter matters, such as the events of the previous night.

The Sorting Feast had been a pleasant affair, though the two primary announcements seemed to have caught the students off guard - Narcissa Malfoy's appointment as Defence Professor had raised quite a few eyebrows and hushed whispers. And the Triwizard Tournament had sent an electric buzz storming through the student body - though the disappointment on the faces of most Third Years and below had been disheartening, to say the least. Albus had quite a few candidates in mind for the Tournament - Cedric Diggory was a powerful wizard in his own right, far surpassing his father, Amos. The Weasley twins were gifted wizards as well, capable of weaving magic in devious and inventive ways, though he suspected they would probably fritter away their time in the tournament on frivolous showmanship. Slytherin, too, had a powerful witch or two in their midst - such as the Head Girl, Gemma Farley. The Head Boy, Roger Davies, was a force to be reckoned with and would do quite well in a tournament of this stature.

The Goblet, though, had a mind of its own.

The fire to his office blazed green, waking Albus from his reverie, and a man with scraggly brown hair stepped right through, smiling as he saw Albus. "Remus," Albus greeted the man, who looked at him with a nervous gesture, rubbing at his chin with his left hand.

"Albus," the man greeted hesitantly, "Er… I tried to shake him off, but he insisted on coming anyway."

The fire blazed green once more and Sirius Black stepped out, looking slightly healthier than he had been at the end of the previous academic year.

"Sirius," Albus said, frowning at the man, "I had sincerely hoped you would stay low and away from the British Isles. I had no idea you were back in England again."

"Home's home," Sirius said with a shrug, looking around at the office, only to start as he stared into the eyes of Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape. "Er…" Sirius said nervously, quailing under Minerva's level gaze, "Albus, you have told them…?" Sirius made a vague gesture with his palm.

Albus peered at the shaggy-haired ex-convict from atop his spectacles. "Indeed," he said, "You should count yourself lucky that I deigned to tell these two about your incarceration on false pretences. Were it not so, I doubt you would have done well at the tail end of their wands."

Sirius relaxed and shook his head. "Tail end of their wands?" he asked incredulously, "Not sure those could legitimately be called _tail ends_ , Albus. And I agree with the idea of not being able to go toe to toe with Minerva."

"A fact you'd do well to remember," Minerva murmured, much to Albus' amusement.

"But _this_ git," Sirius said without missing a beat, "I'd be able to take him with one hand tied behind my back."

"Oh _please_ ," Severus snarled with a roll of his eyes, "The only thing you'd do well with one hand tied behind your back…"

"Gentlemen," Albus interrupted quickly, "I would like to commence this meeting with no infighting; I'd rather save that for the after-parties."

Remus chuckled as both the new arrivals sat down; Sirius seated himself at the far end of Albus' table, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Severus.

"What's this about, Albus?" Remus asked curiously.

"Rumours, hearsay and the account of a paranoid old man," Albus said mildly, "But first, we shall start with a concrete statement. Lord Voldemort is not dead."

Minerva, Sirius and Remus gaped at him. Severus flinched, but looked defiant, with beetle-black eyes glimmering in the torch-light. Fawkes crooned softly from his perch next to the desk.

"Severus," Albus asked gently, "If you'd be so kind…"

The Potions Professor grimaced and turned to face the three on his right. Gingerly, he clasped a hand around his left sleeve and drew it up to expose his forearm.

* * *

"Books away, wands in hand," Narcissa Malfoy told them, her voice stiff and her heels clicking with inordinate authority as she swept into the Defence Classroom. Her students scrambled to obey her; a profound sense of satisfaction swept through her at the notion of how her command was obeyed immediately, with nary an attempt at resistance.

She surveyed the room with a steely gaze, evaluating her students and gauging them for signs of potential. She was disappointed when she found none - then again, these were Fourth Years. And _Gryffindors_ at that.

The Longbottom heir practically quailed before her gaze, withdrawing into himself in a manner that did not befit a wizard of his stature and ancestry. There was a girl from the Patil family, but the manner in which she fumbled for a wand indicated that she had no experience in duelling at all. Her friend - another pureblood from the Brown Family - was equally disappointing; she seemed more intent on scribbling notes for make-up and home remedies than spellcasting. As for the Finnegan boy, she had never known that family to have produced an upstanding wizard. Dean Thomas - a gangly, if handsome boy - looked fairly alert and vaguely familiar to Narcissa. And she gave him credit for his effort at magic, but none for execution; he tried to clear his desk with his wand, but failed miserably, scattering his ink jar all over the floor, Dunbar seemed far too interested in staring at Thomas dreamily to sustain _her_ interest.

And right at the back of the class were the trio who her son thought were the worst students in Hogwarts: Hermione Granger, the muggleborn. Ron Weasley, the youngest male child of the Weasley Family. And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

Granger was perhaps the only child of the lot that looked eager to learn. Ron Weasley was glaring darkly at her, and Potter merely seemed tense.

"I suppose a brief introduction is in order," she said tersely, "I am Narcissa Malfoy. My credentials are irrelevant - as of this moment, I _am_ the most powerful magical being in this room."

Her smirk grew more pronounced as she witnessed her last statement send indignant ripples reverberating through the classroom.

"As for my teaching style, I'm afraid you shall all find me very demanding," she said, walking across the floor and towards the Patil-Brown duo, "And that means no ' _Top Ten at Hogwarts_ ' list, Miss Brown."

The girl she had addressed turned a very interesting shade of red. "One point from Gryffindor," she said coldly, as the two looked abashed, and the Brown girl frantically crumpled her list.

"Now," she said, "Onto the curriculum. I received quite a few notes from the… being… who taught you last year."

She glanced at the trio at the back, and saw them all stiffen at the evident lack of respect in her voice for the werewolf who had masqueraded as a Professor and been so presumptuous as to send his pathetic notes to her. At _Dumbledore_ 's request, no less.

 _Interesting reaction_ , she thought, looking right at a suddenly mutinous-looking Harry Potter in particular.

"Nonetheless," she continued, "The notes were adequate for my purposes. If I understand your history in this subject correctly, so far, you've largely tackled magical creatures and a few basic jinxes and hexes. Am I correct?"

Granger nodded firmly.

"We shall be taking a bit of a leap this year," she said, "To curses, counters and the use of spells in duelling."

While the rest of the class paled at her words, she noticed Potter's eyes light up, though he suppressed it almost immediately.

"However," she said, "Before tackling so complex a curriculum, I have devised a… test of sorts to gauge where you stand as far as the magical arts are concerned. As Mister Thomas demonstrated so ably, the _willingness_ to use magic is not quite the same as the _ability_ to wield it. A Banishing Charm, tweaked just so, may send an ink jar zooming neatly into your case, or it may cause the jar to flail and make a mess all over the floor."

Thomas flushed a dark red, much to her amusement.

"Therefore, we shall start with the simplest charm of them all," she said, "Levitation."

She waved her wand and conjured nine golden balls from thin air. The balls floated over to her students, presenting each student with a heavy golden sphere.

Narcissa withdrew her magic into herself ever so slowly, letting the balls _thump_ lightly onto each student's desk.

"Mister Finnegan, Mister Thomas," she said, and the two boys practically stood to attention, "Lift those up, would you?" She inclined her head towards the spheres on their desks.

The two boys stared at her for a moment before they followed her instruction. _Not quite the brightest lot_ , Narcissa thought to herself.

She watched with mild amusement as the two boys strove to lift the spheres, only to fail miserably.

"As you can all see," she said, waving a hand at them, "The specific gravity of these spheres is so large that they simply cannot be lifted by an ordinary human being. You shall use the levitation charm to lift them. Then, you shall shoot them right into _this_ target, with the same charm. If I so much as _hear_ a _Waddiwasi_ or a similar spell, I shall be incredibly disappointed."

She conjured nine sets of heavy wooden boards, with a bullseye drawn on each.

"I do not want your spheres bouncing off the boards," she said, "I want them to pierce the wood and stay lodged."

She surveyed the class once more and Granger raised her arm.

"Professor?" she asked, "I've… never heard of the Levitation Charm being used in such a manner."

Narcissa smirked. "How does one cast a spell, Miss Granger?" she asked sharply.

The girl frowned in thought, then answered carefully, "Through a wand. Specifically, magic is channeled in a certain manner when a magical being inscribes relevant runes with her wand."

"An astute answer," Narcissa said, "One point to Gryffindor."

Granger preened and the rest of the class stared at Narcissa, wide-eyed - it was evident that they did not expect her to be so impartial as to grant Gryffindor any points at all.

"But an answer that demonstrates merely a rudimentary understanding of magic," Narcissa said sharply, and watched Granger deflate with mild amusement. She continued, "Casting a spell involves much more than simply pushing a rune into the ley lines that surround us. By that logic, all a muggle would need is a wand with a magical core and a basic understanding of runes to cast spells.

"What makes _us_ so different from _them_ , is our _affinity_ towards magic," she said, "We can take the magic that lies around us and channel it through a rune to have a specific effect upon the world and the environment around us. The difference between a jinx, and a curse, and a charm lies in the _manner_ in which we channel magic… but that topic is not quite something we're concerned with at the moment.

"The key takeaway here is this - runes enable beings with an affinity for magic to cast magic in a specific manner. Essentially, a rune _tells_ the magic that pervades the world around us what to _do_ , and how to _act_. Now, Miss Granger, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate the Levitation Spell on an object other than the sphere - perhaps, on the book lying near your desk?"

Granger nodded at her and went through the requisite wand motions to cast the spell. " _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," the girl chanted with perfect enunciation and the ratty book lying next to her, perhaps from the previous class, rose into the air with barely a shudder.

"A fine demonstration," Narcissa said. She raised her own wand. "Now, observe _my_ attempt to use the Levitation Charm."

She flicked her wand at the book and it was snatched from Granger's grasp with barely any effort.

"Now," she said, "What did you all observe?"

Granger looked like she wanted to answer, but Narcissa cut her off. "Someone other than Miss Granger, please," she said, "When I teach a class, I expect whole-hearted participation. And there really is no need to raise your hand unless you're planning to ask a question of me."

"You did not use runes," Potter said tersely, "You simply flicked your wand and the spell just… happened."

"Indeed," Narcissa said.

"And you didn't use words either," Dean Thomas said.

"Absolutely," she agreed, "But the silent casting wasn't quite the point of that demonstration. Mister Potter is correct - I did not use the requisite wand motions to cast the spell.

"Which ultimately means that runes are not necessary to wield magic. Our affinity to wield magic also gives us an instinctive ability to _sense_ its flow through our wands, our very body. Practise a spell enough, and you can cast it with barely a word and a thought.

"Modifying a spell, tweaking it so that it exceeds its original intention, is no different. Ultimately, Hogwarts is merely an institution that teaches us instinct though discipline."

Some of the students looked mystified, but Narcissa pressed on, "However, for the purpose of our lesson, all you have to know is this - modifying the levitation charm _just so_ , requires you to truly sense the flow of magic through your wands as you cast them; ultimately, if you try hard enough, you shall be able to put that sphere on your desks right through the boards at the far end of the classroom.

"Now, begin."

* * *

Sirius leaned forward in his chair, his gaunt face made even paler in light of the revelation that had just been foisted upon them all.

"Bellatrix Lestrange… a woman who was declared deceased by the Ministry… is alive and attacked Alastor Moody?" Sirius asked, " _Alastor Moody_?"

Albus nodded grimly.

"I don't get it," Sirius said, shaking his head, "Not that ol' Mad-Eye hasn't created a large pool of extremely dangerous enemies, but why would she attack _him_ , of all people? Wouldn't someone like Crouch be higher up her bump-him-off list?"

Albus steepled his fingers together atop the oak table and looked off into the distance.

"I'm afraid I'm as in the dark, as it were, as you are," he sighed, "But perhaps this is a point worthy of consideration - Alastor Moody was the first choice to teach Defence against the Dark Arts this year."

An annoyed huff escaped Minerva and she interjected in her characteristic sharp tone, "Until Lucius Malfoy got that appointment overturned for his wife."

"Indeed," Albus said. He inclined his head and continued, "But lest we forget, we must remember Narcissa Malfoy not as the woman who married Lucius Malfoy, but as the phenomenally ambitious pureblood that once graced these walls. More often than not, she was overshadowed by the prowess of her elder sister, but I have always believed Mrs Malfoy to be more talented in the art of manipulation and diplomacy than her sister could ever dream of being."

"Sure," Sirius said with a shrug, "She may not have been a prodigy along the lines of Bellatrix, but I remember her being lethal with a wand in hand."

"I can attest to that," Severus said dully, "She's not an ordinary witch, by any means."

"She does have _depth_ to her potential that she may not have had much chance to display to great effect," Albus agreed, "I do not believe we should underestimate her importance to the state of our world. More importantly, her sudden appointment at Hogwarts is too blunt a show of force on Lucius' part to be mere facilitation of his wife's lifelong passion of teaching budding young witches and wizards."

"There must be an ulterior motive," Remus finished. Albus nodded.

Sirius shook his head. "I'm not even going to try and get inside dear Cousin 'Cissa's head," he said, "That woman was always too clever for her own good. Luckily for us though, she spent most of Hogwarts trying to climb up the social ladder to bother with such trivialities as dark lords and wizarding wars."

"I wouldn't make light of her abilities," Albus said mildly, "She may have been unduly influenced by certain primeval notions of pureblood culture and a woman's role in such a culture, due, in no small parts, to the late Mrs Black, but I do not ever recall her struggling to keep up with her lessons. Moreover, she has written papers on magical theory that boggle even my mind with her ability to dissect a topic with exceedingly astute deductive abilities."

Sirius shrugged. "I'm not worried about Narcissa," he said firmly, "She's been on the sidelines for too long to be an effective player in any game. I'd be more far more freaked out by the idea that Bellatrix is alive. And that she attacked Alastor Moody."

"Is Alastor doing well?" Remus asked gently.

"He is recovering from his injuries," Albus said, "The Ministry refused to entertain his claims…"

"No surprises there," Sirius muttered ruefully.

"... But yes," Albus continued, "Bellatrix always was too powerful a witch for her own good. If she truly is free and working towards the return of Lord Voldemort, I fear our time of peace shall soon come to an end."

* * *

Harry had snorted, along with Ron, when their new Defence Professor had asked them to _feel_ out their magic, as if it were some mystical, flimsy Divination-influenced _Inner Eye_. He had joined Ron in making snide comments about how Malfoy's mum was handling the class, at least until Hermione snapped at them for not making an effort.

Then, both he and Ron had proceeded to make half-hearted attempts at influencing the _Leviosa_ spell " _just so_."

"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry chanted dully. His ball rolled to the edge of the table, and he looked askance at Hermione, who seemed to be muttering the spell under her breath with her eyes closed. Her sphere was floating inches of the table, but it continued to hover in place. He sighed.

" _Pathetic_ ," came the snide voice of Narcissa Malfoy, making Harry grit his teeth in annoyance, "Our resident celebrity is apparently incapable of performing a charm taught to first years."

Harry merely glared at the vile woman, who had now come to a halt beside him and was looking at him with narrowed eyes that seemed to spew condescension.

 _Great,_ he thought, _We've got another Snape._

"So pathetic," the woman said with a patronising shake of her head, "That he does not even realise the fact that emotions and zeal have much to do with the ability to perform magic. Flop your hand about in an effeminate manner, barely even applying your mind to the magic you are about to perform, and your ball shall be as limp as your… personality, Mister Potter."

The class seemed to gasp as Harry seethed in humiliation.

He continued to glare defiantly at the woman, who merely smirked, leaned towards him and said in a whisper that carried across the room, "For all her failings, Lily Potter was, much like Miss Granger here, a zealous witch who applied herself to every spell she came across with an intensity that belied her otherwise mild persona. Of all the people in the world you hold dear, she, I believe would be most disappointed in you if she ever saw you laze your way through learning _magic_ \- something she thought was the most wonderful thing in the world."

And that _hurt_. Harry smarted from the figurative blow as Narcissa turned away with a disgusted frown and moved towards the rest of the class. He dared not look at this friends, as the burning pit of humiliation in his stomach churned with guilt, anger and not an insignificant amount of self-loathing.

"Oh, Harry," came Hermione's sympathetic voice.

And that was the last straw. At Hermione's voice - which he knew she had uttered with genuine sympathy, but what he perceived, in that heated moment, as patronising - his rage won out. Magic bubbled up within him, his fist curled and his wand curved upwards. His hand flexed and uncurled and a rush of force whipped right through him. The air _rippled_ ahead of him and the metal sphere on the desk ricocheted away from his desk and towards the wooden board.

A wrenching _crack_ later, the entire class was staring at a massive, jagged hole punched right through the heavy wooden board in front of his desk.

He then turned, panting, to look at the Defence Professor, who was staring, wide-eyed, at him.

After a long, tense moment, Professor Malfoy pursed her lips.

"Detention, Mister Potter," she said.

* * *

"So why us, Albus?" Sirius asked, "Where are all the others? The main men? Sturgis, Emmeline, Andromeda, Hestia, Kingsley… and the others?"

"They are all, I believe, ensconced in day jobs, and perhaps, a fair amount of indolence," Albus replied, "Though I assure you that I shall have similar conversations with the old crowd. And quite a few new faces.

"Nonetheless," he continued, "I called you two here for the other large problem that has long plagued our world - a problem that shall have ramifications far beyond the existence of a mere Dark Lord..."

Albus peered at the worried faces arrayed before him and said, "... The ebb of all magic. And a prophecy that has not seen the light of day for fourteen long and painful years."

* * *

Narcissa looked up from the book she had been perusing, only to see Harry Potter enter her office with a frown plastered to his face. The boy trudged across to her desk and stood before her, not looking the slightest bit abashed. Narcissa looked askance at him for a moment, taking great pleasure in drawing out the boy's discomfort. She could not bring herself to form an opinion of the boy, but at that moment, he was the single greatest example of all of her students' failings - a magical being, actively encouraged to be incapable, going through the motions in a school that had fallen under the sway of a doddering old fool who knew no better.

All of Draco's warnings, his critiques of Harry Potter were proving to be true. The Boy-Who-Lived was no hero; merely an idiot who stumbled into foxhole after foxhole and then escaped with the Headmaster's help.

Finally, Narcissa relented and asked, "Why are you here, Mister Potter?"

He looked up at her incredulously, before he schooled his expression to appear more sedate. "For my detention," he said simply.

Narcissa waved his explanation aside. "Not quite what I meant," she said mildly, "I meant to ask you why you're _here_. At Hogwarts."

He stared at her for a moment and his face seemed to radiate a sudden, surprising intensity as he placed his palms on her desk and leaned forward. "Just because I'm a so-called _half-blood_ …" he started, before Narcissa stopped him with an open palm.

"Again," she said, exasperated, "Not quite what I meant." She cast around for a different way to get her meaning through to him, before saying, "I never really liked Lily Potter."

Potter's eyebrows shot up, but she continued before he could retort, "I'm not implying that Lily was a bad person, so to speak; I merely mean to say that I never really got along with her. I thought she was a bit prissy, a bit stuck up, a bit too eager-to-please, but I never really begrudged her for the fact that she belonged at Hogwarts just as much as I did.

"Simply put, I'm not a firm believer in the superiority of blood," she said with a frown.

That seemed to bring Potter up cold - his face, which had been heating up with every word she said about Lily, had gone slack, betraying his surprise at her declaration.

Narcissa wiggled her fingers and tiny, arcing streams of light shot forth from her fingertips. She smirked at Potter's gasp.

"I'm no ordinary witch myself," she admitted, "But your mother and I shared one other common trait, much as I'm loath to admit it - we both were highly taken by the sheer _wonder_ of magic. An extraordinary force that pervades the entire world, a force that only a select few may wield to great effect, a state of being that is so wonderfully weird and capricious…

"And then I come here, only to find that the students I teach think magic is such a _chore_. There are a few exceptions, of course, like your friend - Miss Granger… but I'm not entirely convinced her thirst for knowledge trumps her need for self-validation most of the time."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Potter asked indignantly.

"She knew answers to at least half of the questions she posed to me in class," Narcissa replied, "Her questions weren't intended to test me, or to enrich her own knowledge of magic, but to prove that she'd read ahead in class.

"Anyway," Narcissa continued, ignoring Potter's glare, "We are not discussing Miss Granger. We are elucidating the idea of magic."

"Magic?" the boy asked, as his glare fell away and his eyes glimmered with mild curiosity, "What is this about… _Professor_?" The last word dripped with disdain and Narcissa grimaced.

"Why do you think we can perform magic, but muggles cannot?" she asked rhetorically and continued, "Magic is a force that permeates the world, and only some beings on this planet have enough affinity towards it to actually use it, let alone _wield_ it.

"This… affinity… is what makes us - you, me and everyone else at Hogwarts - unique. But not all witches and wizards are gifted with the same _level_ of affinity towards magic. Some have more affinity than most - and such wizards are few and far in between."

"Like the Headmaster," Potter said, smiling triumphantly at her.

"And the Dark Lord," she replied, and his smile turned into a scowl.

"Truth be told," she continued, "I did not expect any of you to be able to perform a spell by instinct alone; runic motions and wands are bequeathed to all witches and wizards for a particular reason - to be able to channel magic appropriately, and to be able to use their affinity towards magic in a structured, forthright manner. I, myself, have practised the _Leviosa_ spell countless times before - my affinity for it stems from my intimate knowledge of all the pathways such a spell entails, of the _feeling_ it engenders as magic flows through my body, and a host of other things that I simply cannot fashion into descriptive sentences.

"But you had none of that. And yet, you performed the spell towards the end," Narcissa stated. She raised an eyebrow at Potter expectantly.

The boy squirmed for another moment, and then replied, "I was… angry."

"At me?" she asked. When he did not speak, she sighed and said, "You have my permission to speak freely, Mister Potter."

"Yes," he grit out, "Angry at you."

Narcissa smiled smugly at him. "So it _was_ accidental magic," she said, "Not quite a prodigal performance by an otherwise mediocre wizard. Just a temper tantrum that manifested itself as magic. _Pathetic_."

Potter flinched, and her smile widened significantly as she observed the slump of his shoulders.

"There is no shame in aspiring to a life of graceful humility and judicious frugality," she said, "But I see no reason why any wizard would be proud of striving towards mediocrity. And yet, here you are, with a chip on your shoulder - the son of a muggleborn witch who was worth ten of you."

Potter seemed to sag before her and she took great pleasure in seeing his pathetic self-righteousness vanish.

"In fact," Narcissa said, standing up from her seat and rolling her shoulders, "I'm going to prove it to you. This shall be a very different sort of detention, I'm afraid; you shall duel me, and I shall demonstrate what magic truly _means_."

* * *

 _Schooled_.

It was a common enough expression, but only now did Harry know the sheer depth of humiliation the term attempted to convey.

He had been _schooled_ in duelling by Draco Malfoy's mother. This was not a feeling he would cherish, but one he was not likely to forget - it _burned_ in the pit of his stomach as he got up morosely from the cold stone floor, again.

He had fought the vile Professor three times so far, and his fights were barely worthy of being called _duels_. For duelling implied a competition that pitted like against like, foe against foe, skill against skill.

He had been _massacred_.

The first time, all it had taken was a single, powerful, unidentifiable spell from the Professor that barreled into his side and left him gasping upon the floor, powerless to wipe her smug smirk off her face.

The second fight could barely even be called a fight. He managed to dodge the first volley of spells and managed to get off a hasty Body-Bind that missed her by a country mile. Then he was sent sailing through the air by a simple, but powerful Disarming Spell.

The third time, his Disarming Spell fizzled out against the wall four feet to her left as he missed entirely, and Narcissa conjured a bloody _lion_ that charged and pinned him down, slobbering all over his face. He could practically _feel_ the smug superiority flowing from Narcissa at _that_ display - a Gryffindor, pinned down by his House mascot, which in turn was conjured by a former Slytherin. McGonagall would have had a conniption.

But he simply could not bring himself to give up.

* * *

" _Pathetic_ ," Narcissa snarled, "All those legends woven around your birth, around your vanquishing of the Dark Lord, all those myths about your prowess, and here you are - a _worm_ writhing upon the ground before me. This is the magic you've learnt at Hogwarts? A Body-Bind and a Disarming Spell are all that four years of education have taught you?"

Potter got up gingerly, glaring at her, though his previously malignant glare was almost comical in Narcissa's eyes - he was not potent, and therefore, his glare was merely for show.

"Again," he snarled, brandishing his wand.

Narcissa smirked and raised her own wand. "A glutton for punishment, I see," she crowed. Her wand whipped forward with alacrity and a crackle of lightning burst forth. Potter rolled to the side, panting visibly, but barely managed to dodge it. Narcissa jabbed her wand at him, compensating for his re-positioning, and the chain of lightning whipped to the side.

"Aguamenti," Potter roared, but his spell was far off the mark. He jumped back, and Narcissa smirked again as she wove her lightning forward. Her eyes met his, and she knew hers were shining with triumph.

And then, her breath caught in her throat as his eyes blazed green. He whipped his wand outward, carving frantic runes into the air. And just as her chain lightning touched his left arm, it _sizzled_ out and she was caught off-guard as a fiery ball of bluebell flames _exploded_ out from his wand, tearing right through her conjured lightning. She quickly slashed her wand down, calling forth a silvery, translucent shield.

His powerful, fiery sphere shuddered against her advanced shield, and her shield _shattered_ as it was pit against the sheer strength of his conjuration. Narcissa was forced to step aside as the ball of fire slammed into a lone chair, reducing it to kindling. Potter panted and whipped his wand out tiredly, but she was faster - she sent a flurry of ropes at him, which promptly bound him before he could get his spell off and summoned his wand from his hand.

He had lost another duel.

Narcissa's hand trembled as she was made aware of the _tingle_ of magic that had swept the entire room.

She looked into his glimmering green eyes as he lay bound on the floor and realised that she had misread his call for a fourth duel - he was no masochist; his eyes shone not with hatred, but with defiance borne of an unanticipated intensity, a spirit so profound that she found it startling.

And his magic _sang_ when he truly wielded it. The incident in Defence Class was not an isolated anomaly. Her shield, by all rights, should have rendered Narcissa invulnerable to the common _cold fire_ spell. But the sheer power of his conjuration had overwhelmed her shield and torn it apart as if it were made of brittle foil.

Behind those simmering green eyes hid a well of immense, primal _power_.

Narcissa smirked inwardly as her expression softened. She vanished the ropes, only to extend a hand towards the prone young man. The boy looked up at her, appearing surprised at her gesture of kindness, but shrugged and grasped her hand as she helped him up.

"Well done," she said, "That... was a display your mother would have been proud of."

His shoulders straightened just a tiny bit, though his glare had yet to be tempered.

"Nonetheless," she said, pointing at the chair, "For destroying the property of the school, despite the fact that I specifically asked you to avoid using lethal spells… that would amount to two further detentions, Mister Potter."

His lips curled downwards, but halted as she smiled at him benignly. "You could consider these sessions detentions, or Remedial Defence lessons, but I assure you I won't have you engage in such mundane chores as writing lines or standing in a corner.

"Instead, I shall attempt to teach you how to duel. My skills have become rusty after years of complacency, and I shall enjoy a chance to use them. And in time, you may prove to be an opponent worthy of me. Until then, though, you shall have to make do with my tutelage. Is that acceptable?"

Narcissa smiled at him. He nodded back tentatively and left the room, though his countenance seemed guarded.

Her smile became more pronounced. Narcissa had discovered the tribute the Malfoy family would pay to the Dark Lord. All she had to do now, was win his trust and lead him to oblivion.


	3. A Locket, A Cup, A Tiara and A Prophecy

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and associated characters - those are the property of J K Rowling. I merely play, in meagre fashion, within the sandbox.  
_

 _And thank you, as always, to the original author of this story that shall not be named._

* * *

 **A Locket, A Cup, A Tiara and Part of a Prophecy**

The cave loomed, ominous and vast, above her, but Bellatrix paid it no mind. She sang a happy tune, her high voice filling the gloomy cave with wild cheer, and the ghastly, animated corpses moaned a creepy chorus.

"Bella?" a voice whispered from within her robe pocket, "Status?"

Bellatrix stopped singing and the Inferi fell silent as one, standing watch around her as her magic _flexed_ and forced the muggle man at her feet to drink more from the pedestal that stood on an island in a subterranean lake that filled the cavern.

Bellatrix ignored the voice for a moment, though she eventually relented with a sigh and pulled out a golden hunter-case pocket-watch from her robe. The lid sprang open to reveal a small, circular mirror that showed not her face, but that of Bartemius Crouch, Junior.

"Barty," Bellatrix exclaimed, and then giggled, "You send me to the loveliest places!"

Bartemius rolled his eyes, then fixed her with a stern look. "Well," he growled, "You can blame _Him_."

Bellatrix's eyes widened and her laughter died on her lips. "I… I was joking," she said weakly, "I would never do that to Him."

"Indeed," Bartemius said smugly.

Bellatrix frowned. "Did we have to leave Him with the little rat, though?" she asked, "I would be a much better caretaker than Pathetic little Pettigrew."

"Pettigrew is resourceful," Bartemius countered. Before Bellatrix could retort, he ploughed ahead, "Although, I agree with your assessment of Pettigrew's… abilities. Personally, I feel we're handling the more… difficult tasks and contributing far more to the cause."

Bellatrix smiled. "Of course we are," she cooed.

"So… status?" Bartemius asked again.

"This idiot muggle I caught is only halfway through the potion," she said with a frown, "He keeps blubbering and resisting after every sip."

Bartemius sniffed. "Well, get it done," he said, "And once you have the artefact, let me know."

"How about you?" Bellatrix asked, "Have you managed to access my vault yet?"

Bartemius grimaced. "Unfortunately, Bones and Scrimgeour were both right there in the office when my old man tried to apply for permission. Fortunately for us, though, my father's assistant knew of a... back channel."

"Oh?" Bellatrix asked curiously, though she kept one eye on the muggle, who was now pale-faced and whimpering as he forced down another sip from the bowl, "Do I know this… assistant?"

"I don't think so," Bartemius said, rubbing at his chin, "He's a Weasley, though."

Bellatrix grimaced in distaste. "A Weasley _helped_ us?" she asked.

"Oh, he's not like the rest of them," Bartemius replied. He then paused and corrected himself, "I suppose he's a naive, over-ambitious idiot, as opposed to a mere simpleton."

Bellatrix giggled again. "So how did he get you into Gringotts?" she asked.

"Right through the goblins," Bartemius said smugly, "Turns out that the over-ambitious, eager-to-please Weasley has an elder brother at Gringotts. The elder brother got us in touch with a friendly, if corrupt, goblin who told us he'd let us march into your vault for a certain amount of… compensation. Your vault key, though, went a long way in getting us an audience with the goblin."

"And…?" Bellatrix prompted.

Bartemius shrugged. "My father is still at Gringotts," he said, "And I'm waiting in the lobby in an invisibility cloak. He should be back soon enough - and I left… precise instructions."

"Well," Bellatrix said triumphantly as the last sip of liquid in the bowl vanished down the wretched muggle's throat, "Looks like I beat you to the punch!"

She pushed the muggle aside, who found enough reserve energy to scream hoarsely as he was pulled away by the Inferi, and towards the lake. Bellatrix smirked as she watched the muggle descend into the dark waters, his screams turning to gurgles that bubbled up from underneath the surface, and with horror-stricken eyes that glanced wildly at her, pleading and praying for help.

She giggled again, and turned to the artefact she had been asked to retrieve. A large, gleaming locket, affixed to a long, silver chain peered up at her. A single serpentine letter was carved upon it - the letter _S_ \- inlaid with green stone that glimmered even in the fell light of the cave.

"Regulus tried to steal this?" Bellatrix breathed, peering at the beautiful locket.

"Tried, being the operative term," Bartemius muttered, looking sourly at her, "He didn't last long against your husband though."

Bellatrix laughed harshly. "Serves Reggie right for betraying Him," she barked.

She tentatively reached out towards the locket, and shivered at the inordinately cool touch of the metal. Once she was sure that it was safe to do so, she grasped it firmly and held it up to the glowing orb that floated above the bowl. The locket rattled ominously in her palm.

She laughed and looked at Bartemius' curious face, which still stared up at her from the pocket watch she held in her other hand.

"I've got it," she said and her eyes gleamed in the light of the glowing orb, "I've got the artefact."

* * *

Harry chanced a glimpse at his cheap wristwatch - while it was a dirt-cheap runic contraption that he had bought during his last visit to Diagon Alley, it had two hands and told him the time in relatively reliable fashion, so he figured it was worth the price - and realised that he still had quite a while to go for breakfast. He exhaled sharply, increased his pace and continued jogging upon the sprawling grounds that surrounded Hogwarts.

Soon after he had duelled with Professor Malfoy for the first time, and lost miserably, he had felt… different. It felt as if the world had crystallised around him and he had acquired a focus that was separate from his desire to be a normal kid - a focus that was shaped around being a _better_ wizard.

The insults that she had flung at him hurt, but nothing had hurt him more than the idea that his mother would have been disappointed in him. While academic zeal still eluded him, he decided to drive himself forward in other ways, including building upon his pathetic stamina - a trait that he had been made aware of none too subtly during his duels with the Defence Professor. And so, he had taken up jogging, only to find out that he actually enjoyed the exercise.

And jogging on Hogwarts grounds was an absolutely wonderful experience - the sheer, fantastic beauty of the landscape took his breath away. Not many sights in the muggle world could compare to such surreal visions as fairies flitting about bushes as he whipped past them, or the sound of a hippogriff's beating wings as it trailed him across the grounds, or bowtruckles screeching as he sped past their favoured trees. For perhaps the first time in his life, he truly understood Hagrid's fascination with the great magical outdoors.

Then again, his love of the magical world had been turned on its head during the past month. The powerful figurative enchantment that had fallen upon him when he had first beheld Diagon Alley and all its wonders had long since settled into complacent acceptance as he had gone from subject to subject, from book to book, from year to year. That had changed in recent times - he was re-discovering his fascination and wonder again; and though he would never _thirst_ for knowledge the way Hermione did, he was fairly sure he was more than interested in the varied and wonderful applications of magic.

He _loved_ duelling - his heart racing, blood pounding in his ears, the harried split-second decision that would break you more often than it favoured you, the _rush_ brought on by magic as it escaped him in a wonderful display of light and _force_ … it was exhilarating.

Of course, it helped that the instructor had mellowed down in recent sessions.

* * *

 _Three weeks ago, The Defence Classroom_

"Five sessions," the Defence Professor snarled, "Five sessions and you've learned nothing. Every day, you come here, whip out your wand and flail pathetically as you try and cast spell after spell without even _trying_. And you expect to beat me with such awful complacency?"

Harry frowned as he picked himself up off the ground, wincing at the pain in his ribs from her last banishing curse. "So what should I do?" he asked, "Look up spells in books?"

"If you must," she replied, "Or better yet, ask your muggleborn friend. The unique problem that you're faced with isn't the fact that you're not on a roving quest for bookish knowledge; it's the fact that you dare not learn how to use the power that stands at your disposal."

" _Dare_ not?" Harry asked as he rubbed at his chest.

"Do I need to insult you over and over to get the point across? Do I need to bring up your long-lost mother and insult her spirit?" she asked, "You've wielded magic in spectacular fashion five times so far, and all five of those incident have one overarching factor cutting across them."

Harry was about to ask her what the overarching factor was, but he knew that she hated it when he asked her something that she thought was obvious. So he racked his brains and tried to come up with a satisfactory answer.

"Er…," he said tentatively, "I was… angry."

"At me," Narcissa finished, "Is it obvious now, or should I elaborate upon the obvious because you're an idiot?"

Harry grimaced. "Emotion," he said at last, "My spells are… er… powerful, when I'm emotional."

Narcissa tried to keep a straight face, and nearly succeeded for a moment, but a giggle escaped her, bringing a smile to Harry's lips. "Well," she sniffed, "You don't need to sob each time you cast a spell, nor do you _need_ to be angry. You simply need to bring up the same feeling, the same _rush_ that you get, and remember how your magic acquires an edge in periods of high emotion, or stress.

"Now," Narcissa said, as she conjured a steel sphere, "Levitate it again, then try and push it to the side with magic alone. Try and _feel_ the flow of magic, try and summon the same _edge_ that you acquire when you're angry."

Harry sighed. While uncontrollable bursts of power were not past him, summoning up such power at will seemed to be a barrier he simply could not break through at the moment. But he was never one to back off from a challenge.

He focused on the sphere, to the exclusion of all else, and tried to summon up _rage_. Surprisingly, in his opinion, it was not quite as hard as he thought it would be - summoning up a happy memory for the Patronus in his third year had been a challenge, but this… this was awfully easy. His fist curled as he brought up the feeling of humiliation that he had felt when Marge's new boxer had chased him up the tree around the corner of Privet Drive, even as Dudley and his gang looked on and laughed. The helpless terror that he felt when the dog's jaw had bitten down upon his baggy jeans, the sickening realisation that there was no one he could complain to, no one who would ever offer shelter or help, no one he could reach out to, no one that was _there_ for him… eventually, though, his terror had subsided and been consumed by anger. His curled fist had trembled as he sat atop that tree and he had pointed a single, shuddering finger at Dudley, swearing to avenge this humiliation if it took him all his life…

"Wingardium Leviosa," he murmured as his wand went through the familiar motions and felt the _rush_ once more. His magic surged through him, churning in his gut and then flowing through his chest only to burst outward from his wand, cradling the ball and _pushing_ it up by sheer force of will.

He stared at the Defence Professor, who merely smirked back. He rolled his shoulders, even as the sphere floated calmly in mid-air, and drew breath as he remembered the sensation of magic filling him, flowing through him and bubbling forth from his wand. He exhaled, pushing his wand out, but the ball continued to float in place. Harry sighed - he knew he was doing it wrong even as he pushed out with his wand. Magic had a distinct sensation - a _flow_ that seemed to spring forth from the very depths of his body; whereas his more recent push had felt… empty, as if it were missing a crucial component. His hands, his gut and his chest had felt absolutely empty, devoid of the _rush_ , of the warm flow of pure power.

He closed his eyes, grit his teeth and concentrated, probing for the wealth of power within him; he pushed again, but the _feeling_ of magic simply was not there.

And that was when he was struck by an epiphany that was almost startling in its simplicity.

 _There was no magic within him_.

Every witch, wizard, magical being and beast were effectively squibs - _they had no intrinsic magic_. Magic was either imbued upon them, or called forth from without.

Harry's eyes widened, his pupils dilated and he extended his left arm outward, palm outstretched as if trying to call magic to him. His right arm arced forward, pulling at the _world_ around him. And nature itself seemed to respond as power surged from around him, coalescing at the tip of his wand. With focus honed to a razor edge, he concentrated with all his might, even as his wand tip shuddered, striving to hold the magic he had summoned. And then, as his wand whipped towards the ball, he let go of his figurative leash and spat out his magic at the sphere…

It burst into pieces. Professor Malfoy acted at once, vanishing the shards before they could get far.

"Well," she said with a mocking tilt of her head, "At least this indicates progress."

* * *

 _Two weeks ago, The Defence Classroom_

Harry ducked out of the way of a blue beam of light, barely even wincing at the sound of it crackling against the far wall. His wand swept through the air, _pulling_ magic towards him, through him and out with a sharp exhalation. An arc of white light streamed outward, only to be brushed aside by Professor Malfoy with a lazy gesture. She jabbed her wand forward and to his dismay, her dark-red beam of light surged right through his shield and struck him in the chest.

He woke up groaning and rubbing at his head as he lay on the cold stone floor of the classroom. A sigh of exasperation escaped him as he stared blearily up at the high ceiling, wondering if he would ever be good enough to best his Defence teacher in a duel.

He got up gingerly and looked up at the Professor, who was leaning against a desk casually, barely five feet away, and examining her fingernails.

"I am not often wrong," she said, "But when I do happen to be wrong, I like to believe I'm gracious enough to admit an error in judgement. And I misjudged you. Your affinity, your… ability to wield magic is not something I've seen often before. And yet, you're not as good as you could be for a simple reason - because you don't stop to _think_."

She paused for a moment to let her words sink in. "You have an precocious affinity towards magic, but that's not enough. You're rediscovering your enthusiasm to learn, but that's not enough either. But you need to acquire another quality if you seek to become a truly potent wizard - you need to strategise, to plan, to scope out, to strike at _just_ the right time.

"You need to be a _predator_ ," she finished with a smirk, "Not a prey that is beholden to his instinct."

* * *

 _The previous day, The Defence Classroom_

Harry grew more frustrated as his "detention" passed him by; the thriced-damned Patronus simply would not appear without his wand going through the requisite runic motions.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," he murmured for the twelfth time, and the stag appeared, filling the classroom once more. He truly did feel the surge of magic through him, the _rush_ brought on by the power of his conjuration, but he could not seem to replicate it with a simple jab of his wand.

He looked to the Defence Professor for help, but she was watching the stag intently. Harry waved his wand and it vanished; she started and looked askance at him.

"I've never seen a Patronus before," she said, her voice filled with an emotion he could not quite place. But she sounded almost wistful as she continued, "It's more… serene than I thought it would be."

Harry shrugged and said, "I can't seem to do it - it's just… the feeling of magic is different when I perform a Patronus. It's not as… simple as a Levitation Charm, or a Stunning Spell."

The Professor smirked. "No," she said simply, "It's a _charm_. Not a jinx. Not a hex. A _charm_."

Harry wondered if Flitwick had ever differentiated between a charm and other spells; the diminutive professor might have, at some point in class, given them a lecture about the differences, but he simply could not remember such an event - for a moment, he was ashamed of the fact that he tended to zone out during the less practical portions of any class. And for a moment, he empathised with Hermione's frustration at his behaviour during the more theoretical classes.

"The single largest crime that this school could be accused of is this," Professor Malfoy said, pointing to him, "It stifles your ability to understand, reducing magical theory to a mere capsule that must be memorised and regurgitated during an exam. The wonder of it, the sheer mystery of the origins of magic, its elusive nature… it's a pity that none of you truly discover it."

Harry sighed internally - a lot of his fellow students would claim that the Defence Class did just that: take the fun out of learning. She was nowhere near this interested during the actual class; she merely appeared bored when she was teaching them.

"Granted," she confessed, as if echoing his thoughts, "The system doesn't incentivise teachers either. After a while, you begin to forget that you have students to impart knowledge to - it simply becomes a question of grading papers and reporting woeful grades to the Deputy Headmistress. It doesn't help that the students are hardly bright-eyed and eager."

Harry shrugged at the last sentence - it rung true enough. Barely a month ago, he could not care less about magic and magical theory. The only part of the magical world he had truly been driven to learn more about had to do with Quidditch. The worst part of the magical world had been Draco Malfoy and Lord Voldemort.

Now, a world of possibilities lay sprawling before him.

"I still don't get it," he said at last, "What's the difference between a charm and a hex?"

The Professor merely smiled sweetly at him. "We can't make it _too_ easy now, can we?" she said smoothly as she called an end to the detention.

* * *

 _Present_

Narcissa stared at her smooth, pale, open palms and flexed her fingers, though her glazed eyes betrayed the fact that her mind was wandering among memories that were far removed from the sight of her palms. At her feet lay a crumpled piece of paper - the remnants of a letter from her husband. On it was scrawled a single message, encoded to prevent anyone who did not bear the Malfoy ring from reading it.

The message was simple enough - _Tattoo growing stronger_.

It was as much an update on the outside world as it was a reminder of the mission she had been sent here to achieve. Dumbledore's inner circle eluded her - the older man was far too canny to take her into confidence, and his coterie was equally tight-lipped.

Although, she had found another ace up her sleeve - Harry Potter. Two possibilities had unfolded themselves when she had first met him - Harry Potter was either an idiot savant who would be little more than an annoyance to the Dark Lord, or Harry Potter was the humblest wizard she had ever known who wielded such power with such complacency (though the complacency had been recently replaced by an intensity she found... surprising). If the former were true, she would have to dig for something more than just Potter to appease the Dark Lord... if He ever returned. And if the latter were true, then she had to find a way to get into Potter's good graces and time her kidnapping of him _just_ right so as to place her family along the top echelons of wizarding society after she gave the Dark Lord His most potent enemy on a silver platter.

As the days passed her by, the second possibility appeared more… probable. And the implication was stark - she had to ingratiate herself with Potter. Her stomach churned at her anticipated course of action.

The idea was simple enough, though the execution was proving to be a tad difficult - the boy was a extremely cautious. And he was a good enough student, but he tended to surprise her in odd ways, which made him a bit too unpredictable for her comfort. The intensity that he brought to her lessons, for example, did not quite gel with his usual complacency and the academic scores of his past. The boy was talented, but it was almost like he was trained to be less than stellar - and it reminded her of her missing cousin: Sirius Black. Their childhood at Grimmauld Place had been replete with instances of Sirius trying his utmost to spite his parents; and several of those instances involved poor examination scores. It was not until Sirius had left the Black Family to live close to the Potters that he finally emerged near the top of the class. However, she doubted Potter had much reason to spite his muggle guardians, whoever they were… but then, why was he so lackadaisical about his studies? It was almost as if he had no one to impress at home, no one to convince of his good standing in the new society he found himself in.

And another example of Potter's odd manner was his ability to absorb pain. A variety of the curses that she had used in their duels were downright painful - they typically left a bruise. Had she used a similar curse on her son, for instance, she could not imagine him being silent about the hurt. And yet, there Potter was, springing to his feet and shrugging off the physical abuse as if it were nothing, as if he was used to it; there seemed to be little that _could_ hurt him, save for her stinging barbs about his lost parents, or his friends.

Just how important _was_ Harry Potter to Albus Dumbledore's cause? Or to the Dark Lord's? Was she playing with fire? Would Potter ever trust her enough to let her spring a trap upon him? Would the Dark Lord be appeased with her apprehension of Potter, were he ever to arise again?

Narcissa clutched at her head and leaned forward on her desk. Her thoughts were rambling, unfocused - she needed more time and information; she looked at the message from her husband and sighed.

She _had_ to make friends with Potter. She had to beguile him, turn his cautious acceptance of her lessons into placid affection for her and weave a web that would close in around him when she needed him most.

She only hoped the churning in her stomach had everything to do with anxiety, and nothing to do with _guilt_.

* * *

Harry's exhalations grew sharper and more pronounced as he sped up, going downhill, towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest, though his confused thoughts about the new Professor came to an abrupt halt at the sight of a serene Luna Lovegood skipping across the grounds.

"Luna!" Harry called out panting as he drew up alongside her, "Hey!"

Both Luna and he stopped at the same time, and he placed his hands on his knees, taking time out for a breather before he started a conversation with Luna.

"Hello, Harry," Luna chirped, "Are you running from something?"

"No," Harry said simply, once his breathing became steady enough for him to speak freely, "Just running."

"Just running," Luna echoed as she looked him over, with her azure eyes roving over his body. "It does wonders for your cute butt."

Harry choked for a moment, before he schooled his expression to look less like a gaping fish. "Er…" he said, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes," Luna said, looking at him oddly, "I'm going to meet Firenze."

It took Harry a few moments to place the name. "Firenze?" he asked, "The centaur?"

"Yes," Luna said as she started walking again, and he kept pace alongside her, "I like talking to Firenze. Centaurs have so many things to talk about."

"Really?" Harry asked, nonplussed, "Apart from the stars and the planets?"

Luna smiled at him. "But there are so _many_ stars and planets, Harry," she said.

Harry had no idea if she was playing it straight, so he played safe and said, "I suppose." And his curiosity had raised its head again, so he asked, "Would Firenze mind if I tagged along?"

"Centaurs do not mind talking to people at all," she replied, "Unless they're infected by Nargles. Are you infected by Nargles?"

"Nope," Harry replied with a shrug. Luna really was an odd young woman; he had spoken to her a few times after their conversation on the Hogwarts Express, but each conversation, while interesting and funny (the humour was, no doubt, unintended on Luna's part), had left him more unsure about the Ravenclaw girl's sanity.

"So," he asked, fishing around for a new topic as the Forbidden Forest loomed ever closer, "Did you like the Arrival Ceremony last night?

"I liked the Durmstrang ship," Luna replied, "Though it did look like it would be a bit uncomfortable on board.

"Although, Beauxbatons had those beautiful Abraxan."

"Yeah," Harry said with a grin, "Hagrid looked like Christmas had come early when those things landed. He's going to love taking care of those. And… did you see Viktor Krum? I don't think any of us knew he was still a student at Durmstrang."

"I don't follow Quidditch," Luna replied softly, "But Ronald seemed very excited."

Harry laughed. "So are most girls at Hogwarts," he said.

"His butt isn't as cute as yours," Luna said, her voice betraying not even a _hint_ of bawdiness.

Harry goggled at her again, blushing in spite of himself. The girl he was staring at, on the other hand, hummed a soulful tune nonchalantly as she trotted towards the edge of the forest, with the treeline growing clearer as the sun rose atop the craggy hills to the east.

Harry desperately fished around for another topic, only to land upon the haunting melody that Luna sang. "Is… is that part of some song?" he asked.

"It is," Luna acquiesced, "The Dawn of Magic, by Apolline Delacour. I really like that song - it's a fond memory from my childhood."

"Oh?" he prompted.

"My mother sang it to me every night when I was little," she said.

"So… the song is a seventies thing?" he asked with a grin.

"It must be," she replied quietly, "Apolline Delacour was a very famous songstress in the seventies; a forerunner of Celestina Warbeck, or so my Dad tells me."

"Oh," Harry said, "Mrs Weasley loves Warbeck." After a moment, he continued, "Luna, you've mentioned your father quite a few times before, but you've never told any of us about your mother…" He trailed off as he looked to Luna for some guidance.

"She died when I was nine," Luna said softly, "She was a very clever witch - one of the best arithmancers in the country. She experimented with charms, you see. And one day, her experiment went awry, and I did not see her again."

Harry's breath hitched. "Luna…," he said sincerely," I'm really sorry."

"That's alright, Harry," Luna replied, "It was a long time ago."

He was just about to point out that four years wasn't quite a long time ago, but she gestured to the forest, cutting off his line of thought. "There he is," she said, pointing at a distant man-shaped blob.

As they drew closer, the sun cast enough light for Harry to make out the muscular, broad-chested upper torso of a human that blended seamlessly with the body of a palomino horse.

"Luna Lovegood," the centaur boomed in a deep voice, with sapphire eyes glinting in the light of dawn, "And you've brought Harry Potter with you. It's been a long time, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded at the centaur, just as Luna greeted Firenze with a surprisingly stately curtsy.

The centaur held out a bag to Luna. "I have brought you what you asked me for, child," the centaur said with a flourish, "This weed grows in abundance in the centre of the forest."

Harry looked at Luna curiously as she thanked Firenze.

"It's a variant of bubotuber," Luna explained, looking at Harry, "I burnt some of the raw bubotuber in Professor Snape's stores in my last Potions class, so he asked me to replace them before the next Hogsmeade weekend, and I do not have an owl to order with, so I asked Firenze to help me."

"Greasy git," Harry murmured, "Just like him to ask you to replace the ingredient you lost _before_ the Hogsmeade weekend. He was probably trying to sic a detention on you."

"Oh," Luna said, looking between him and the bag, "Do you think he will be unhappy if I brought this to him?"

Harry grinned. "Nope," he said, trying to imagine the surprised look on Snape's face when Luna brought him the bubotuber variant, "I think you should totally hand this over to him."

Luna smiled sweetly at him, and his stomach did a very strange flip-flop.

He turned to Firenze in order to avoid staring at Luna. "Er... " he said, "How do you two know each other?"

"Much like you and I did," Firenze said, tossing his dark mane over his shoulders, "Except… in her case, there was no encounter with a fell shade lurking under dark eaves."

Harry chuckled ruefully and Firenze continued, "I bumped into this young one two years ago; I chanced upon her wandering in the forest all by herself, trying to find magical creatures even I had never heard of. I escorted her back to the castle grounds and informed the Headmaster, who chastised her appropriately.

"She came back often, and called for me from the edge of the forest. We have since become friends."

"I see," Harry said, though he could find no appropriate remarks for Firenze's explanation - his forays into the forest had never been truly voluntary. And how does one _call_ an adult centaur to the edge of the forest anyway?

"Harry and I were having a conversation about a song called The Dawn of Magic," Luna remarked abruptly, "Have you heard of it?"

Firenze smiled and looked up at the sky, which had now turned a deep blue. "I like songs," he said wistfully, "The herd sings few songs, but I like them all the same. I must confess though - I do not know many human songs."

He turned his eyes onto Luna and asked, "How does the song go, child?"

Luna merely tilted her head and sang in a soft, melodic voice that took Harry by surprise with its powerful earnestness - far removed from Luna's usual calm detachment, as if the song had given life to a hidden store of passion and emotion trapped within her.

" _Baseborn, forged in flame,_

 _Bloodied, on shores of yonder sea,_

 _Careworn, amid ruin and shame,_

 _Entombed, he shall know peace._

 _Fire, steel, death and stone,_

' _Ere magic rests to atone_."

Harry felt the hairs on his back stand on end and Firenze paled as Luna's song unfolded, borne as it was on an enchanting, if haunting, voice.

"That is a beautiful tune," Firenze said faintly, "But I'm afraid that is no human song. It is a prophecy. You choose to invoke a fell prophecy, child."

Harry raised his eyebrows and stared at Firenze. Ever since Trelawney's weird prophecy had come true last year with Pettigrew's escape, he had been immensely wary of any soothsaying.

"A prophecy?" Harry asked, despite himself.

"Indeed," Firenze said with a nod, "A prophecy that made itself known even as magic was gifted unto this world. A prophecy as old as magic itself. We centaurs know it well - we have our own version of the prophecy. _Carreg-nei, thuihen mithrin_ , the prophecy goes in our tongue. It would translate to - _Of low birth, forged in flame_."

"Baseborn, forged in flame," Harry said, echoing the first line. He scratched his chin with a frown as he looked at Firenze.

The centaur, though, was staring past them at the castle with a faraway look. He then turned his gaze to Harry, and Firenze's sapphire eyes virtually bored into him.

"And I suspect you, of all people, should acquaint yourself with this prophecy, Mister Potter," the centaur finished.

The centaur then turned his back upon them and galloped off into the depths of the forest, leaving a thoroughly confused Harry behind. He turned to Luna and noticed that the girl was already walking back to the castle.

His heart heavy with dread he could not place, he jogged back along the edge of the forest, hoping to make it to the Great Hall before breakfast started.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Dobby," Albus Dumbledore said kindly, "I'm afraid you may have to repeat that."

The diminutive house elf puffed up and squeaked, "Mister Headmaster, Sir, there is being intruder at Hogwarts last night!"

"While I understand the meaning of the term 'intruder'," Albus said, frowning at the house-elf, "I cannot comprehend why this intruder would not show up on one of several instruments that I bought after the Sirius Black debacle last year, Dobby."

The house-elf's ears drooped. "Mister Dumblydorr, sir," the house-elf continued in its high-pitched voice, "Maybe your instruments are not seeing us?"

"My instruments do not see… you?" Albus wondered. His eyes then widened in comprehension and he said, "Of course! My instruments do not quite screen for house-elves. This intruder… it was a _house-elf_?"

Dobby nodded so frantically that his head was a blur. "It is being an old house-elf, sir. Very old house-elf."

"Did anyone tail him?" Albus asked, his eyes twinkling once more as a newfound mystery unfolded itself at Hogwarts, "Did one of you, perhaps, suss out the good house-elf's destination?"

Dobby's eyes widened dramatically. "He is a _bad_ house-elf," the creature squeaked, shaking his head, "And no sir, we did not. Dobby tried his best, sir, but the bad house-elf vanished into the Come-and-Go Room.

"We tried to stop him when he came out, sir, but he popped away! And Dobby could not follow him!" The house-elf's ears drooped as he admitted his failure.

Albus smiled kindly upon the creature and asked curiously, "The Come-and-Go Room, Dobby?" he asked, "Which room is this?"

"It is being the room on the Seventh Floor, sir. Next to Barnaby!" Dobby replied, perking up again.

"Ah," Albus said, wondering if the toilet he had discovered on the Seventh Floor could hold much value to a house-elf, "Come-and-Go. Er… that is very… appropriate."

Dobby looked mystified, though he nodded nonetheless.

"And did this intruder take anything back with him?" Albus asked, running his fingers through his beard once more, "Something he did not have before he entered the… Come-and-Go Room?"

Dobby looked puzzled for a moment, before he clicked his fingers.

"Of course, sir!" the house-elf replied, beaming, "The bad house-elf is having a... tiara!"

* * *

"No," Ron said, shaking his head as Harry sat down for breakfast after a quick shower, "Okay… I admit that she's one good-looking bird, but that's not it. She's… there's something about that girl!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Luna, who had plopped down at the Gryffindor table next to Harry, stared at Ron with curious, protuberant eyes.

"Are you guys still talking about the _bouillabaisse_ girl?" Harry asked them curiously.

"No," Ginny said firmly, "It's just Ron."

"Oh please," Ron hissed, "Take a look around, would you?" He jerked a thumb up at the Ravenclaw table. Harry looked in the general direction and was mildly amused by the sight of some of the Ravenclaw Seventh Years drooling as they stared at a recently arrived Beauxbatons student.

"Oh, for the love of…" Ginny said, exasperated.

Harry tilted his head and glanced curiously at the Beauxbatons girl, who, in his opinion _did_ look stunning enough to warrant a second glance, if not a third and a fourth. That said though, he did not quite think that she was so stunning as to elicit an avalanche of slobber, as evidenced by the Seventh Years.

"She's very pretty," Luna admitted in a soft voice. Harry gave the blonde Ravenclaw an amused glance.

"Pretty?" Ron spluttered incredulously, "Pretty? Luna, _Hedwig_ is pretty. That Beauxbatons bird is bloody beautiful!"

"Hedwig would feel incredibly insulted, I'm sure," Harry said, chortling.

"You don't think she's beautiful?" Ron asked at once, rounding on him.

Harry stopped laughing and fidgeted nervously as all three of the girls who surrounded him - Hermione, Ginny and Luna - stared at him expectantly.

"Fine," Hermione said abruptly, and Harry sighed as he was saved from a stray comment, "She's very beautiful. Now would you please stop eyeing her up like she's a piece of meat at a butcher's stall? And stop calling her a _bird_. She's a _woman_ and she has a name."

"I'm not eyeing her up!" Ron countered hotly, but looked abashed as Harry raised his eyebrows. "And do _you_ know her name?" Ron asked pointedly.

"For your information," Hermione said primly, "I do. Her name is Fleur Delacour."

Ron and Harry stared at Hermione. "How'd you know?" Harry asked curiously - he had never pegged Hermione as someone who would go around asking for the names of women she did not know.

And to his surprise, his best female friend flushed an eerie red colour. "I… er… pay attention," she said, trying and failing in her attempt to sustain a prim tone.

Ginny, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes and said, "You asked around, didn't you?"

"Maybe," Hermione said, a tad too defensive.

Ginny looked askance at Hermione before she started giggling, which compounded to full-fledging chortling when Luna added, in her customary bland voice, "To be fair, I'd want to find out too."

Hermione gave Luna a startled look, while Harry and Ron were utterly mystified by the conversation. Ron, however, shrugged and turned the conversation to a topic he seemed immensely interested in.

"So," Ron said excitedly, "Do you guys have any idea how that Goblet chooses the best student from each school?"

Hermione leaned forward, apparently eager to move on from any discussions of a certain French student. "The Goblet has always been used as a selection mechanism to parse out the best witches and wizards in the magical world," Hermione said with a rather dramatic flourish.

"Best witches and wizards?" Ginny asked curiously, though she still seemed a tad annoyed at the idea that she could not compete in the tournament because she fell short of the age requirement by a year. "And how does it decide who the best witch is? Looks? Grades?"

"Power," Hermione said simply, "Or rather, the affinity that a magical being has towards magic itself. It's all in ' _A Comprehensive History of the Schools of Magical Europe_.' "

"Merlin," Ron whispered to Harry, "Even the title of the book puts me to sleep." Harry snickered.

"How do you reckon the tasks will be set up?" Neville asked, with a faraway look in his eyes. Ron leaned forward as well and Harry just knew that Ron would be immensely disappointed if he was not ordained Hogwarts Champion.

Although, to be fair, Harry was honest enough to admit that the glory brought on by a chance to compete in a tournament of this stature was far too tempting, even for him. That said, the only way he would be immensely disappointed with the selection of the Hogwarts Champion was if the Goblet chose to anoint Draco Malfoy.

"Yeah," Ron asked, his eyes lighting up, "What do you think the tasks will involve?"

"A giant chessboard for sure," Ginny replied, not missing a beat.

"Really?" Ron asked eagerly, though he caught Ginny's grin and waggled a finger at her. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

Ginny smirked, while Neville chortled.

"Apparently," Hermione continued, "The three tasks are usually structured so that the first two merely influence the winner's standing in the third task."

"Huh?" Ron asked, blinking.

Hermione sighed. "Basically," she explained, looking at each of them in turn, "The first two tasks are point-based. The winner of each task, so to speak, bags the most points. The points for the first two tasks are then tallied, and the Champion with the highest score is granted an advantage in the third task.

"And it's the winner of the third task who typically wins the tournament."

"So," Harry asked curiously, "Someone can score low in the first two tasks, win only the third and so win the _tournament_?"

Hermione nodded. "Although, it's usually the Champion with the highest score who wins the third task – the advantage is typically too large for another Champion to come from behind."

"Holy hell," Ron commented abruptly, startling Hermione, "She's bloody _hot_." Harry glanced at Ron, then followed the redhead's stare, only to notice the blonde girl – Fleur Delacour – exit the Great Hall with her lustrous hair swaying enticingly behind her shapely, if retreating, back.

Hermione sighed and palmed her face while Ginny merely glared at Ron.

* * *

Inside an old, decrepit mansion in Little Hangleton, a massive snake slithered to and fro, its tongue flickering and tasting the air; Peter Pettigrew studiously ignored the beast as he prostrated himself before the cast-iron chair that stood in the middle of Riddle Manor. Everlasting fire that tingled with magic so powerful that it made the hair on Peter's back stand on end burned in front of it, obscuring the views of all who entered the manor to behold their god. But the fire was not what gave Peter pause; it was the menacing pulse of magic in the air, so powerful that it felt almost stifling for any that entered the room.

"Master," Peter said with a saccharine voice and quailed as the flames climbed higher, fiery tongues licking at the air in menacing fashion, and the magic in the room _quivered_ , forcing tiny spasms of fear through his marrow. "I bring news from Bella," he squeaked.

A fell voice - though Peter was not quite sure if it was made audible by his ears, or his very mind - emanated from beyond the fire; its tenor was high, cold and terrible. "Speak," it commanded.

"Kreacher brought the last piece," Peter said, his body twitching in fear, despite the fact that he thought he was delivering good news to his lord, "The tiara. We've got the three artefacts."

"Three artefacts... and Nagini," the voice mused, and the flames withdrew ever so slightly. Peter let out a sigh of relief.

Peter had to strain to hear the voice whisper to itself, "Two are still at large, but no matter. I do not need them."

For a wild moment, Peter considered enquiring about the nature of said artefacts, but he realised that the adage about curiosity killing the cat had never rung truer than at that moment.

"Very well," the voice said at large, as it grew in strength and his mind was filled with simultaneous fear and strangely… _hope_. The flames danced happily, sending ominous shadows hurtling across the walls of the ancient manor. "Tell Bellatrix that I have another task in mind for her.

"Should… should I tell her of the nature of the task?" Peter asked timidly.

"Two words should suffice," the voice whispered, "Nicolas Flamel."

* * *

 _A/N: I got more reviews! That made me very happy! A few guest reviewers pointed out that magic would fail in space because space tech is... technology, which interferes with magic. (I haven't published such reviews because they contained sexist and racist remarks pointed at me, but just thought I'd clear up the confusion anyway). Two things. One, I don't think so - I'm pretty sure canon implies the other way around - tech doesn't work in the presence of HEAVY magic (and the magic on board the spacecraft mentioned in Skeeter's article isn't HEAVY magic anyway). Two, I don't care - in the internal logic of this story, magic works in the presence of technology. And unless the magic is absolutely stifling, technology works in the presence of minor magic.  
_

 _Also, I may have underplayed the Fleur introduction here; be warned - do expect a lot of friction between the two at first. I'm not attempting to write fluff from the get-go here (though I confess I may be writing a different sort of "fluff", with little substance).  
_


	4. Champions, and The Prophecy

_Disclaimer: This work is not intended for profit. Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J K Rowling at Co._

 _And thank you to the original author of this fanfiction as well. And guys, seriously, stop sending me notes about plagiarism or whatever. I could've sworn I'd already typed in the fact that this is inspired by another fanfiction (WITH PERMISSION) over and over again, in ALL THREE OF THE PRECEDING CHAPTERS._

* * *

The goblet gleamed with an unearthly glow, even in the dim light of the torches that spanned the length and breadth of the Great Hall. Harry glanced at his watch and noticed that they barely had five minutes to go before curfew.

"Hermione's already done this?" Ron asked gruffly as he clutched a neatly cut piece of parchment to his chest, "Are you sure?"

Harry nodded sourly. "I guess she thought we'd already done this stuff," he muttered with a shrug, "Dropped her name in right alongside her dorm-mates."

Ron gave Harry an incredulous glance. "She dropped her name in with _Parvati_ and _Lavender_?" he asked, spluttering.

Harry chuckled. "Guess so," he replied with a shrug. He then took a deep breath, and his heart pounded in his chest. "So… you want to go first?" he asked Ron.

Ron nodded tightly. "Reckon we stand a chance?" Ron asked him nervously.

"Not really," Harry replied honestly, and shrugged off Ron's sour look, "Which is why we probably shouldn't be this nervous. We're just dropping our names in… y'know… on the off chance."

"Uh-huh," Ron said dully. His eyes brightened immediately though, and he asked, "And what if we get selected?"

"Even if we do, only one of us will get in," Harry reminded Ron, "And the other one shall watch from the sidelines."

Ron gulped. "Yeah," he said, his voice turning hoarse. He held out his parchment to the glowing blue flames, and with a nervous exhalation, dropped it in. The tongues of flame quivered for a moment before they surged upward in an orange blaze and engulfed the parchment. The flames reverted to a soft blue and the parchment was gone. Ron looked mildly relieved, as if he had half expected the Goblet to spit out the parchment in a show of rejection.

Harry gave Ron a reassuring nod and stepped forward, throwing his own parchment to the Goblet with a shrug. Ron clapped him on the back.

As the duo walked back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry realised that while he was now a candidate in the most prestigious inter-school tournament in Europe, he barely stood a snowball's chance in hell of actually getting in. While he felt a huge pall of relief settle over him, the pang of disappointment he felt in his marrow was quite a surprise.

* * *

Sirius Black trudged across a sandy beach, with azure blue seas as far as the eye could see, with Remus Lupin by his side. The strip of sand curved along the sea in an unnaturally smooth manner, leading up to a large, ostentatious mansion that practically jutted out from the sea itself.

A mere two months ago, Sirius would have been overjoyed at the thought of spending his time on the run on just such an island, with naught but sea for miles around, and date palms standing stock still in the sand with their large, bladed leaves swaying in a gentle breeze.

Now, though, his mind was far from thoughts of the law catching up with him – now, his mind was fixed on a single, immensely confusing, if foreboding conversation with the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

* * *

 _Two months ago_

Sirius fidgeted nervously as Albus Dumbledore turned his immovable gaze to Remus and himself.

"Nonetheless", Albus Dumbledore continued, "I called you two here for the other large problem that has long plagued our world - a problem that shall have ramifications far beyond the existence of a mere Dark Lord..."

Albus continued with a glance at Minerva and Severus, "... The ebb of all magic. And a prophecy that has not seen the light of day for fourteen long and painful years."

Sirius felt Remus tense next to him. It took the shaggy-haired convict a while to register the words, but once he did, his reaction mirrored that of his closest surviving friend. He knew exactly what prophecy Albus was referring to – it was the reason for the entire debacle that spanned the last two decades of his life. For the deaths of the two greatest people he had ever known. For the loss of his carefree life. For his incarceration. For betrayal, pain and sorrow.

And therein lay the irony – he had never actually learned of the prophecy that had torn his life asunder. And judging by Remus' and Minerva's reactions, neither had they.

Snape, though, had paled considerably – a reaction that raised Sirius' hackles - but he turned his attention to Albus as the venerable Headmaster continued.

"I must confess to a fair bit of high-handedness here," Albus said with a tired sigh, "None of the people assembled in the room, as of this moment, know the full contents of the prophecy – James and Lily, bless their souls, did, but even they did not understand the full implications of it all.

"And, while this may come as a surprise to you all, neither do I, despite my considerable knowledge and resources.

"But what I do understand of this prophecy leads me to believe that it that has much to do with the state of our world today, and far more to do with the dark days that shall follow."

* * *

 _Present_ , _somewhere in the Arabian Gulf_

The revelation that Albus had bestowed upon them had been… less than profound, to say the least.

And in all honesty, Sirius resented the fact that Albus had hoarded such potent knowledge all along. The words of the prophecy made no sense to him, but the idea that Lily and James had gone to their deaths with barely any knowledge of why they had sacrificed so much had punched right through his heart, and what spilled out was sheer rage.

He turned to Remus and asked with gritted teeth, "I understand _why_ we're going to see this woman. I really do. What I don't understand is why Albus only just thought of consulting her. Why did he wait for more than a decade before he approached her, or someone like her?"

"I asked Albus the same question," Remus replied with a nod, "Her existence is not quite what one would call an open secret. Albus has known of her for some time now, but she was… hard to find. The _Hukumat_ kept her location under tight wraps for over a century."

Sirius nodded thoughtfully, though he took a while to understand the foreign word Remus had uttered - the _Hukumat_ stood for the _Hukumat As-sahriyya lidowlul khaleejul a'rabiya…_ or something. The Government of Magic for the Arab States of the Gulf had maintained a tight vigil over the movements of one of the few known Seers in the entire world.

"Wasn't there someone else we could ask?" Sirius asked, "Someone more popular? Someone who was accessible?"

Remus shrugged. "Albus doesn't know of any true Seers apart from this one," he said, "And the few that were known were either frauds, or simply not trustworthy enough." The werewolf turned his eyes to the sky, which was a blazing blue with puffy, white clouds. He murmured, "And to think that Seers were once such a significant part of the magical population. They've become a rarity now… which is a chilling thought in light of Albus' beliefs about the… ebb of magic."

Sirius shuddered. "Don't really want to think about that," he said, "This sort of… world-ending stuff - well, at least for our world - isn't the sort of thing I was made for."

"Well," Remus said with a rueful grin, "Here we are, right in the middle of it."

"Wait a minute," Sirius said, "Why… why would the _Hukumat_ let her location slip now?"

"It still isn't an open secret," Remus answered smoothly, "Albus had to exhaust several of his resources and influence to acquire this particular information. And word is that this Seer has… lost her once-formidable abilities."

Sirius took a moment to register that last bit. "She… lost her powers? Like… her Inner Eye?"

Remus looked bemused.

"Then why on earth are we meeting her?" Sirius asked, bewildered.

"Because we're not after a _new_ prophecy," Remus explained patiently, "We're here to acquire an alternative interpretation of a prophecy that's already been cast in stone."

"Weird," Sirius said, then shrugged. "Whatever," he said, and they trudged on across the sands, towards the grove of palm trees that stood watch around the distant mansion.

* * *

Harry stared at the plain, smooth stone that glinted innocently up at him from his table, and rubbed at his ribs, still sore from the Bludgeoning Charm Professor Malfoy had used to beat him in their last duel. While he had yet to beat her in a duel, the fact that he had managed to defend himself for over five minutes was an achievement for him and a testament to _her_ skill.

"Consider this a demonstration of your progress," the Defence Professor said with a sniff, "Though I do not think you have applied yourself quite as much as you could have, I suppose such a demonstration is in order."

Harry grit his teeth but said nothing – he had yet to be acclimated to her shifts in demeanour from friendly to cold and then back again. And he had to wonder how Draco Malfoy had turned out to be so incompetent – his mother was a harsh taskmaster when she wanted to be.

"However, I am not small-minded enough to deny you a favourable assessment of your progress – your grasp of your instinctive magic, the ability that you have displayed with non-verbal magic, at least for the simpler hexes, shall enable you to stand in good stead in the future," Professor Malfoy continued, "But your disappointing lack of effort towards understanding charms, or towards a better grasp of advanced magic is especially infuriating in light of your… potential.

"Hence, this particular lesson," she continued, gesturing to the stone with a gesture that was at once graceful and imperious, "Transfiguration.

"Channelling your magic into a single, concentrated spell takes sheer _power_ ," Professor Malfoy said with a sniff, "But transfiguration is, quite possibly, the purest branch of magic there is. Where _will_ competes in lieu of power, where subtlety takes over brute force."

Professor Malfoy gestured to the stone once more. "Now, change the stone to a tortoise."

Harry tilted his head at the stone, examining its shape and visualizing a tortoise with all his might. He carved the basic runes for stone in the air with his wand, then the basic runes for tortoise, and finished the entire sequence with a forcible jab at the pebble, which promptly grew legs, a shell, and a head that peeked out from within its carapace as it waddled across the table.

The Defence Professor inclined her head at him. "Change it back," she commanded, "But feel the magic deep in your veins as you go through the motions."

Harry nodded, closed his eyes, bent his head and truly focused on the _rush_ once more as he obeyed her command. The tortoise reverted to a stone – but the smooth transfiguration did not quite surprise him; only last year, the entire batch of Third Years had tackled a teacup-to-tortoise transfiguration. The pebble felt a little harder, but only just.

What really surprised him was the _rush_ of magic – it was simply not _there_. The magic didn't quite flow through his body and his wand in the same manner as it did when he cast a spell; he felt as if he were grasping at sand. The magic felt like it slipped him by as he exerted… _something_ … towards the stone. Harry stared at the smooth surface for a moment, before he frowned, concentrated hard, and transfigured the stone to a tortoise again.

"I don't understand," he admitted, gesturing to the waddling tortoise on his desk, "I transfigured it, but the magic felt… different. Like it went around me, rather than… through me. Levitation did not feel like this."

The Professor gave him a smirk that was fast becoming infuriating and familiar. "Ah, but the Levitation _Charm_ is a misnomer – it is a _spell_ , with all that the label entails. The first true spell taught to students at Hogwarts. But no matter, we shall learn by doing," she said, and her eyes lit up with what he surmised was either a gloating glint or the pleasure of teaching, "Cast a Cheering Charm upon it."

Harry stared at the tortoise for a moment, before he obeyed once more… and to his great surprise, the feel was similar. Like a spiralling wisp of magic that just about touched his wand from the outside and then escaped him. The tortoise waddled a little faster and swayed, and Harry knew that the charm had worked.

"It's feels a bit like Transfiguration," he admitted.

"Well, there's your first clue," the Professor said with a smirk, twirling a lock of rich, blonde hair around her left finger, "But alas, we're at the end of yet another detention."

Harry frowned, and promised himself that he would read up on this in the library – why would Charms and Transfiguration not work in the same manner that normal spells would?

"Tomorrow, same time?" he asked tentatively.

Professor Malfoy shook her head. "Not quite," she said, "The Champion's Selection shall keep us quite occupied, I'm afraid. We shall pick this up the day after tomorrow. And Harry… I shall be immensely disappointed if you haven't found out the _why_ for what you experienced today."

His heart sunk for an instant, though he nodded determinedly at her. "Yes, Ma'am," he murmured respectfully, though he quailed at the thought of browsing through the numberless tomes in the Library for information about such abstract, broad concepts. The Professor noticed his discomfited expression and laughed – a peal of pleasant, tinkling laughter that made him stare at her yet again, wondering at how her face just… changed from the harsh, cold Defence Professor to a commanding, but gentle presence who nursed a passion for teaching that was… alluring.

"Do not worry," she said at last. She picked up a book from her desk – a relatively thin tome – and held it out to him. "I'll make it a bit easier for you. What we're talking about – the use of instinctive, primal magic is a topic that few are interested in, primarily due to the few that have the _power_ to be interested in it. Hence, we may have to go back to an era _before_ the wand was invented, when mages duelled with staffs, when intricate wand motions cost battle-mages precious seconds that could be used to save lives, or end them, when magic was a living, breathing force of nature that could quell dissent and destroy kingdoms."

Harry raised his eyebrows and reached for the book eagerly, only to have his bubble burst as his eyes alit upon the title – _A Beginner's Guide to Relocating Druidic Settlements_.

The Professor laughed again at his expression. "It's a book written in around four hundred BC - a relatively precious find. And translated in the eighteen hundreds, so the English may take a bit of effort to get around. That said, do not be put off by the dry title – the book delves into the theory of spells in a manner that I found exceedingly helpful when I was your age."

Harry nodded at her and she smiled at him. He thanked her, pushed the book into his bag and walked out of the classroom.

* * *

Basira Tawfeeq was not quite the old, wizened, wheezing crone at death's door that Sirius Black had expected – well, she was still an old crone, but she was thin, resplendent in a black, gold-trimmed gown, with lingering traces of the great beauty that she must have possessed in youth. She glared at them, her eyes sharp and filled with unearthly vigour, though she projected an air of weariness that had much to do with age and ill health.

"Say it again," the former Seer murmured in perfect, albeit accented English, setting Sirius on edge again – this was supposed to be a _secret_ prophecy. He was half tempted to belt out his wand and hit her with an _Obliviate_ , though the Vow she had sworn to them prior to their revelation comforted him a tad.

Remus, however, nodded dutifully and uttered the prophecy again – the prophecy that Albus had so blithely revealed to them, and the prophecy that had sent his best friends spiralling into the upper echelons of a conflict that had eventually consumed them.

" _He who may atone approaches,_

 _Born to those that have thrice defied the darkness,_

 _Born as stagnation reaches its fiery zenith, high above us all,_

 _Darkness and light shall entwine,_

 _His choices shall mark us all,_

 _Bringing both doom and delight._ "

Sirius shuddered at the fact that Moony could remain so impassive and bland when reading such vivid words. Not that the words made much sense to him, anyway.

There was a very pronounced, heavy pause within the room, before Basira's sharp voice shattered it. She cried, "How dare you!" She gesticulated wildly at them and said, "You dare come into my home, and utter one of my own prophecies as if it were yours?"

Remus and Sirius shared a bewildered glance.

"One of your prophecies?" Remus asked mildly, "I'm afraid we do not understand, Lady Tawfeeq. The prophecy was heard by a man we trust very much, in England, over a decade and a half ago."

"Then you have been fooled," Basira snapped, only slightly less indignant, "I uttered this prophecy before you two were even born – there is proof of its existence in the _Kitaabul-Tawaqqu'at fil hukumat as-sahriyya…_ "

She trailed off at their blank expressions and explained, "The _Hukumat_ keeps a record of all prophecies uttered by the seers in this region – the prophecy you lot plagiarised is listed in that record as one of _mine_."

"Fair enough," Remus said in placating fashion, palms held out in a gesture of peace, "Nonetheless, I must ask – is there no difference at all between our prophecy and yours?"

"There is only my prophecy!" Tawfeeq said irritably, "Your false Seer…"

"Fair enough," Sirius said loudly, interrupting her, "But was there a difference between the true one and the false one?"

Tawfeeq glared at them for a moment before she relented and said with a long-suffering sigh, "The second line… the real second line is not the same. _Born at solstice, reborn in darkness_. As for the rest of it… were it not for the change in language, they both go the same way."

Remus and Sirius said nothing. They glanced at each other again, then nodded at her.

"You should have this false Seer exposed," Tawfeeq spat, "Thrown out. No Seer worth her salt steals another woman's prophecy!"

"We are truly sorry about that," Remus said. He gestured between himself and Sirius. "We did not know that our version of the prophecy was a lesser version of your truth."

Sirius snorted, though not he was not as loud as he usually was.

"But our query stands," Remus said, "What does it all mean?"

Tawfeeq stared at them for a long moment, then shrugged. "Not a clue, gentlemen," she said, "Not a clue. The Fates ordain what the Fates ordain." Her shoulders slumped as if she were weary of the conversation.

"If that is all…" she intoned, her hand wavering over a chime next to her bed, "My butler will show you the door."

Remus and Sirius inclined their heads at Basira, with a soft, "Thank you for your time. We really appreciate it" from Moony. The chime sounded and the butler came in.

Just as Remus and Sirius were about to step out of Tawfeeq's chambers, the werewolf turned around to face the ancient Seer and asked, "Did… did it ever come true?"

Sirius heard rather than saw Tawfeeq sigh once more. "Of all the prophecies I made," Tawfeeq said wearily, "That damned poem is the only one that never came true."

Remus raised his eyebrows, though he questioned the Seer no further and stepped outside with a nod. And a very confused Sirius followed him out.

* * *

The morning the Champions were to be chosen dawned bright and blue, and saw Harry eating breakfast amid his friends in the Great Hall.

The messy-haired boy was enmeshed in his book in a manner that was eerily reminiscent of a certain bookish, brown-haired Gryffindor, who, in turn was staring at him with a frown.

" _A Beginner's Guide to Relocating Druidic Settlements_ ," Ron recited, staring at the book's cover. He shuddered, "Earth to Potter, did you and Hermione swap souls this morning?"

Harry put his book down on the table with a sigh and gave Ron a flat stare. "Part of my detention," he said with a shrug, "Got to finish the book by the day after tomorrow."

"Ouch," Ron said, glaring at the book, "Sounds dry. You really should see Dumbledore about those detentions – it's almost unfair that she finds one excuse after another to keep you there. She's got it out for you, mate."

"While I'm not one to complain about Harry finding a book to read," Hermione said primly, "I agree. These detentions are getting a bit… excessive."

Harry evaded their eyes and shifted in his seat as he dug into his rasher. He had no idea why he had not told them about her 'duelling' and 'theory' sessions, but at the moment, he just felt like it was a separate part of his life that they would not understand. Hermione might, but Ron would merely roll his eyes at Harry for being so interested in obscure concepts as druidic magic, the difference between Charms and spells and the use of runes in magic.

However, he knew that Hermione suspected something. His spell-casting, for instance, had improved in leaps and bounds in the past months – there was something different about his magic now, as if it had been awakened from a long slumber. He had interrogated Hermione about it, and she had murmured something about puberty and magic that made him blush, so he gave it up as a bad job.

Although, not much had changed – Hermione still picked up new spells faster than he did, but he had noticed that he had far greater ability to _tweak_ certain spells, and his casting, once he had finally grasped the spell, was far more variable… and more powerful than hers.

And the book on Druidic magic was… fascinating, to say the least. Once he had got past the old-fashioned writing style, it was a page-turner in more ways than one – the manner in which magic was infused into the daily lives of the ancient Druids that peppered the hills and meadows of England, and the manner in which they used runes were quite interesting. He had yet to find what he needed though – he had no idea why magic felt like it went through him when he cast a jinx, and why it slipped past him when he cast a charm, or tried to transfigure an object.

Though his mind was also awhirl with thoughts of the Professor herself – her ice had truly broken in their one-on-one sessions, and he felt far too comfortable around her to even remember that she was a Malfoy. She reminded him of Lupin in more ways than one – she was friendly, approachable and quite passionate about teaching. That said though, it felt like she reverted in class – the moment he was part of a group of students, she was cold, dispassionate, unfeeling. Her words were jagged spears, her tongue sharp and her wit ruthless. Her first class on the use of runes had merely been a primer – her classroom lessons were filled mostly with the theoretical studies of curses, of specific counter-curses and had very little wand-waving. The only reason his schoolmates did not fall asleep was because the woman had a commanding aura around her that brooked no misconduct, and because she had a way of making even the driest topics sound interesting… though his classmates may dispute the latter.

And the duels… the duels with her were terrifying. While Harry had improved on that front as well, there was little, in his opinion that stood in the way of Narcissa Malfoy in a battle of magic. Her knowledge of spells was absolutely staggering and the precise nature of her spell-casting was almost clinical, but it was her ability to strategize and outwit him, duel after duel, that truly gave him pause. It was often not the overwhelming nature of her spells that brought him down, but the fact that she was almost always two moves ahead of him, able to counter his spells before he could even cast them, and her subtly cast charms that snuck past his stellar defence, that defeated him.

The routine swarm of morning owls rushed into the Great Hall, interrupting his thoughts. A copy of the Daily Prophet landed on Hermione's lap. The girl quickly paid her owl and immersed herself in her newspaper.

Harry watched her for a moment, wondering if he should go back to his book, before Hermione said, "Oh, apparently a Death Eater was found dead in Azkaban."

Next to Harry, Neville laughed as Ron tried to shovel a spoonful of pudding into his mouth and missed spectacularly, thanks to Ginny nudging him at just the right moment. The pudding splattered onto Ron's face, who groaned, "Great going, Gin-Gin."

Ginny giggled and Neville continued to laugh. Harry smiled at the inter-play, only to wince as he noticed Hermione glaring at him for his lack of interest.

"Er… a Death Eater?" he said hesitantly, "A former follower of Voldemort?"

Seamus, who was sitting to his right, flinched violently. Ginny and Neville winced. Ron missed his next spoonful as well and added to the splattered pudding on his face.

"Harry!" he whined.

The table seemed to recover as Neville and Ginny laughed again, pointing at Ron.

"Yes," Hermione said primly, over the laughter, "And according to this article, the Death Eater who died was the most powerful and fanatical of the lot."

Neville abruptly stopped laughing and stared at Hermione, his face draining of all colour. Ginny stopped giggling and glanced at the boy in concern.

"What's the name?" Neville asked, his voice trembling with an emotion that Harry could not place.

"Of the Death Eater who died?" Hermione asked, looking down at the paper. She smoothed the page with the article and turned it towards Harry. "Bellatrix," Hermione said solemnly, "Bellatrix Lestrange."

* * *

Borgin grumbled to himself as he began to sweep the far corner of his shop with slow, lazy strokes of his cleaning brush. He could have charmed the broom, but he had to keep up a façade of activity. It was midday, and customers typically chose this particular time slot to enter his shop with ridiculous demands and expectations - customers that Borgin could typically slot into three distinct types.

The first kind was the Nervous Ninny. This sort of customer entered the shop with a nervous tick, eyes constantly scanning the horizon for authority figures, for spies or even family members – such customers knew they were not supposed to be in an establishment as questionable as Borgin's and yet ventured in because they needed to. The Nervous Ninny would fumble about with his money, cast frequent glances outside the shop and titter nervously as they tried to lighten the oppressive atmosphere that they felt was hanging around them. They were sheep, ripe for the swindling; Borgin could safely price his services unreasonably high and the Nervous Ninny, after a weak attempt at bargaining, would agree to his final quote.

The second kind of customer was the Pureblood Dandy. The Dandy was typically a powerful pureblood who entered Borgin's shop like they owned it and pretended to know absolutely everything about the artefacts he kept in stock. Borgin loathed them – they were usually tightwads, despite their power and wealth. Unfortunately, the Dandy was a necessary evil – they frequented his shop the most, and if he made like an obsequious toady when they were around, they would usually put a good word in for his shop and come to his assistance when he fell afoul of the Ministry. The bargaining gave Borgin a headache though.

The third kind was the _Fucking_ Fencer. Borgin's tolerance level for Fencers was immensely low; Fencers came in all shapes and sizes, hoping to sell off dark artefacts that they had stolen from someone, or wanted to get rid of before they were raided by the Ministry. They took Borgin's money for a service _he_ performed for them. Ungrateful little nitwits.

A long time ago, though, there had been a fourth kind of customer – the sort that made him wish he had never cheated Burke out of his share of ownership half a century ago.

The sound of a chime signalled that the door to his shop had opened. Borgin wearily set aside the broom and trundled up to his usual spot behind the counter.

He was about to say something, when a feminine figure, wrapped in a hooded robe, practically _skipped_ into his field of vision.

"Hey-lo Borgin!" she sang, "I'm bargin' into Borgin, I'm lurkin' at Burke's, I'm lookin' for some lootin', and I'm wearing a _Mark_!"

Borgin's blood turned to ice and he stopped breathing for an instant. The shop seemed to reel as he stood in place, and the world seemed to slip out from under him, leaving him cold and alone in the dark.

He was afraid. Very afraid. His breath hitched as the woman pulled her hood down, only to reveal the visage of Bellatrix Lestrange. The same heavy head of black hair, the heavy-lidded eyes, the tanned skin, and the cold grey eyes sparkling with insanity that was a choice rather than an affliction.

"Long time, no see, Borgin!" she said with a salute. Borgin barely even registered the tall, hooded man who fell in place behind the woman.

The shopkeeper tried his best to just breathe, but his lungs seemed reluctant to even _dare_ draw air in the woman's presence. "You're… supposed to be dead," he rasped.

Bellatrix closed in on Borgin with impossible speed, and her face was inches away from his own before he could even blink. He dimly registered that the skull-like visage from the papers had changed significantly – she looked far healthier, and far more like the schoolgirl who had once visited his shop alongside her late father.

"Like what you see, Borgin?" she whispered, her voice trembling with what he could only surmise was irrational delight. He tried to back away frantically, but found himself pressed up against the wall. Bellatrix extended a long, dainty forefinger towards him and bopped him on the nose.

"Just proving that I'm not a ghost," she said with a giggle and backed away. Borgin breathed a sigh of relief.

"I… I have not strayed from the cause," Borgin ventured, but he was cut off by Bellatrix's hooded accomplice.

"We're not here to question your devotion to the cause, Borgin," the man said coolly. Borgin frowned, momentarily ignoring Bellatrix – the voice was very familiar. "We're here for something else," the man said.

"Anything," Borgin gasped. An uncomfortable pause followed and he blurted, "Is… is He back?"

Bellatrix whipped around with inhuman ferocity and slammed her palm outwards, not even bothering to draw her wand. Her hand made no motions in the air, nor did any incantation emanate from her, but magic burst out from her palm, pushed Borgin up into the air and slammed him against the wall. Borgin then floated in mid-air with his limbs extended outward, as if drawn by invisible ropes.

"We ask _you_ questions," the woman screeched, "Remember your place, you filthy ingrate!"

If Borgin had any doubts about the woman's identity, they were all gone now. Few witches and wizards could command the sort of power that Bellatrix Lestrange had at her disposal.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" Borgin pleaded frantically as his hair whipped around his face and every single artefact in his shop shuddered with the force of the sorceress' magic.

Bellatrix sniffed and closed her fist. The oppressive motes of magic that had pervaded his shop ceased at once and Borgin collapsed to the floor in a heap.

"I'm glad that particular bit of drama is over," the hooded accomplice said mildly as he advanced upon the prone shopkeeper, "Perhaps we can move onto other topics of interest now."

"Please," Borgin panted, "I don't want any trouble. Just take whatever you want from the shop! Anything!"

"We're not interested in what you have for sale, fool!" the man spat, "We're here for an… asset… of a different nature. We're here for information."

"Information on _someone_ ," Bellatrix added.

"Who?" Borgin asked, still breathing heavily.

"A goblin," the man said, tilting his head at Borgin.

"Don't know many goblins," Borgin replied automatically, "You may have better luck at Gringotts."

"So quick to confess!" Bellatrix cackled, leaning casually against one of his shelves. She fingered her wand delicately, and a fell green light smouldered at the tip.

The shopkeeper shuddered.

"Why do I get the feeling that you know exactly who we're talking about?" the hooded man asked, grabbing his lapels and pulling him up to his feet.

Borgin shook his head hesitantly.

"Look," the man said sighing, "I don't make a habit of barging into shops with Bellatrix, intending to play Good Auror, Bad Auror. But I will say this once - either you _tell_ me what you know, or I hand you over to Bella and her… tender mercies." Borgin shuddered once more as he heard the woman chuckle to his left.

"Look…," Borgin said desperately, words tumbling out of him at the man's threat, "I just do that sort of thing on the side. I make people disappear when they want to, but I'm still just a middleman. I don't forge anything… I just redirect such individuals to specific quarters where they may carve out a new identity for themselves."

"I'm not an Auror, idiot," the man said, "You don't need to justify your business model to me. Where did you send the damn goblin?"

"The goblin was… recent," Borgin said, "Around two months ago. I… er… have reason to believe that he went to Sofia. In Bulgaria."

"Why was the goblin on the run?" the man asked curiously.

"Same old, same old," Borgin said tiredly, "Fudged his accounts at Gringotts, engaged in some unsavoury business on the side, accepted bribes… that sort of thing. The management probably wasn't receiving its cut. So the goblin cut his losses and fled."

"I see," the man said. He turned to Bellatrix, who merely nodded sharply and pulled her hood up. She marched to the door and placed her palm on the handle. Her hooded accomplice followed her.

Borgin could barely believe it – he had escaped the wrath of a back-from-the-dead Bellatrix Lestrange with barely a scratch on him. He almost collapsed onto the floor, light-headed and relieved, but as was usual, his oily tongue got ahead of him.

"Why… why are you two after the goblin?" Borgin asked, only to curse himself for his curiosity as his two most recent customers turned to face him once more.

The man tilted his head to the side and asked, "Does Vault Seven Thirteen mean anything to you?"

Borgin shook his head.

"Good," the man said. And before Borgin could even react, Bellatrix had her wand up and pointed at him.

" _Obliviate_ ," she said and giggled.

As the flash of light from Bellatrix's wand sped towards him, the last thought Borgin had before he was lost to blissful ignorance was of how much he absolutely hated the _fourth_ kind of customer.

* * *

"Lestrange?" asked Ron. He tapped his chin and said, "I've heard of her."

He was shushed by an anxious Ginny. The girl pointed frantically to Neville, who looked ashen. His hands trembled as he reached for the paper. Neville read through the article, his eyes roving wildly from side to side across the page, then dropped his spoon onto the table with a clatter and walked away from breakfast abruptly, with nary a glance at his surroundings.

"What was that?" Ron asked, bewildered. Hermione and Ginny shrugged, but Harry pulled the paper closer and read through the offending article.

The first three paragraphs were dedicated to the mysterious death of the former Death Eater, apparently by self-mutilation. The rest of the article was dedicated to chastising the apparently inept Ministry for barely even conducting a proper post-mortem investigation; the body was immediately exhumed.

"The reporter's pretty harsh on the Ministry," Harry observed.

"Rita Skeeter," Hermione said idly, as if that explained everything.

At Harry's puzzled glance, Ron added, "Skeeter's a total hag. She loves screwing over other people for no reason at all. She wrote an article about Dad before start of term – he had some business with an ex-auror a couple of weeks ago. Skeeter spelled Dad's name wrong, she accused him of funny business and then accused the Ministry of trying to cover up something horrible - had Mum ranting for days."

"Her article on magic was pretty solid," Harry countered. Ron and Hermione shrugged.

"And she does have some legitimate ground to stand on in this case," Harry continued. He moved onto the last paragraph of the article, only to gasp.

"What?" Hermione asked, trying to snatch the paper away from him, "What did it say?"

Harry held onto the paper tightly and read aloud, "The death of Bellatrix Lestrange, most notorious for her torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom into insanity, might not invoke significant indignation towards the incompetence of the Ministry in facilitating rehabilitation…" He trailed off. "The rest of the article goes on about Ministry incompetence," he finished, turning the paper back towards Hermione.

"Merlin," Ron gasped, "I had no idea Neville's parents had been… you think they're still…?"

The gangly redhead made a vague gesture, pointing his index finger at his forehead, but Harry got the hint. "No idea," he replied, "But no wonder Neville's upset by this."

"He's probably glad she's dead," Hermione whispered, "But it must be quite a shock to have it mentioned so casually in the papers."

"We'll give him a bit of space for now," Harry said, "But we should go cheer him up later. Maybe after the last class… er…"

"It's Defence, Harry," Hermione said, shaking her head in frustration, "I can't believe you don't have your schedule memorised."

"You mean there are people who do that?" Harry gasped dramatically.

Hermione huffed and stared at him for a moment. Then, after an instant, Hermione's eyes lit up and they both burst into laughter.

Harry packed away his books with a smile as the last class of the day – Defence Against the Dark Arts – finished on a high note. Professor Malfoy had them casting basic Stunners at one another. They had mixed in some Disarming Spells and simple Body-Binds; suffice to say that not a single spell cast by Harry's partner for the day – Hermione – had struck him, much to the girl's frustration and annoyance.

And his spell-casting had been far too quick for her to avoid. He knew by her suspicious glance at him that he would be subjected to a very thorough interrogation after the class, but he figured it was about time he told his friends about his detentions.

"I have to admit," Hermione confided, though her eyes had still not lost their suspicious glint when she glanced at him, "She might be Malfoy's mother… and all that… but she's, in all honesty, one of the better Defence teachers we've had."

"Oi!" Ron whispered hotly, looking warily over his shoulder at the Professor, who was examining a book on her desk, "Don't say that!"

"She's a bit… dry though," Dean Thomas said, trying desperately to get his ink bottle, quill and parchment to pack themselves into his bag.

"Lupin was pretty good," Harry ventured, trying to cast aside Hermione's suspicious stare.

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose he was," she said hesitantly, "It's just… what Professor Malfoy is teaching us seems so much more interesting that dealing with hinkypunks and grindylows." Hermione waved her wand idly and Dean's stationary flew into his bag at once, sealing themselves safely in a pocket on the side. Dean glared at Hermione, who smiled sweetly at him.

"She does know her stuff," Harry admitted, and promptly winced as he became the recipient of Hermione's suspicious stare again.

"I have no idea what her stance on pureblood rights is," Hermione ventured, then her eyes landed on Harry yet again, "Though she did have some harsh things to say about your mother in that first lesson."

"She's pretty fair when she hands you points though," Seamus told Hermione with a grin. The bushy-haired Gryffindor promptly blushed.

"She is surprisingly fair," Hermione surmised, the red tinge on her cheeks not quite going away despite her best efforts.

"Traitors," Ron muttered darkly, "Traitors, the lot of you."

Dean and Seamus chuckled, while Hermione tutted at Ron.

"There's also the minor fact that she's a bloody looker," Seamus interjected, his eyes roving hungrily towards the Professor.

"Cor," Dean said, nodding fervently, "Totally dishy. Best looking teacher in the school by far."

Ron opened his mouth to protest again, but seemed to think better of it. "I… guess I have to agree with you guys there," he declared.

Both Dean and Seamus snickered.

"Pigs!" Hermione spat, glaring at each of them in turn, "I'm talking to a bunch of pigs. The lot of you are disgusting."

"You don't think she's totally hot?" Dean challenged her.

"She's a _Professor_ ," Hermione whispered furiously at him, "And just because she's beautiful…"

"Aha!" Seamus exclaimed, pointing at the girl triumphantly.

"Honestly," Hermione muttered, exasperated.

"She's still a Slytherin and a bloody Malfoy," Ron grumbled stubbornly.

"And a total MILF!" Seamus declared.

"Excuse me, Mister Finnegan," came a soft, yet menacing voice and the Irish boy flinched violently, "Come again?"

"FILTH!" Seamus exclaimed at once, his face turning a very curious shade of red, "Dean's FILTH!"

Dean looked absolutely bewildered, while both Harry and Ron tried desperately to stifle their laughter by coughing into their fists. Hermione's expression seemed frozen in a mixture of horror and utter embarrassment.

Harry glanced at the Defence Professor, who appeared mystified for a single instant before her face cleared and her eyes turned to cold chips of ice.

"I have no idea what you're prattling on about Mister Finnegan," she said coldly, and the boy quailed before her, "But you will see yourself out of my class now. The Champion's Selection is in an hour."

Seamus and Dean nodded frantically and moved towards the door. Harry, Ron and Hermione followed suit, only to be stopped in their tracks by the Professor's voice.

"Mister Potter shall stay behind," she said, "You two, however, may leave."

Hermione and Ron looked at Harry, as if unsure of their next move. Harry gave them a firm nod. They glanced at each other, shrugged, and then made for the door.

"Professor?" Harry asked, his hand inching towards his wand. This would not be the first time she had sprung a duel on him unawares.

"There's no need for that," she said mildly, "I'm merely here to offer you a test of a different sort."

She gestured around her to the desks and chairs, which had been piled up against the sides of the classroom to clear a space in the centre for their impromptu practical lesson.

"Return them to where they were before," she said, and her eyes practically glimmered with a challenging glint.

Harry was a bit overwhelmed – he knew exactly what she was asking for. She was not asking him to levitate the tables all at once and place them where they were, one after the other. Nor was she asking him pull tables and chairs hither and thither with elaborate wand motions such that they piled in the centre of the classroom.

She was asking him to rearrange the classroom with a wave of his wand. No runes, no silly wand waving; just the simple rush of pure, primal magic filling his veins.

Harry curled his fist around his wand and concentrated on the memory of the class as it was, undisturbed, with all the chairs and desks arrayed neatly near the middle of the room. He sensed, felt, scoped out the magic in the air, calling upon it and it coiled right through him, a mystical spring pooling within him, coiling right into his wand, ready to burst out at a moment's notice.

He leashed it, pulled upon it and teased it out, _willing_ the furniture to move towards him, towards their original configuration. He opened his eyes and was disappointed to find that the desks and chairs had scraped perhaps an inch towards him.

The Defence Professor's smirk only drove him on.

 _Instinct_ , she had said. It wasn't quite a wielder of order that influenced magic, but one who embraced the order of chaos.

Harry breathed once more, feeling the magic pool within him, then straining at once to visualise the state of the classroom as it was, and trying desperately to make the thought a casual one that he had alit upon by chance. He pushed his wand up, and then _pulled_ , his left palm clasping his right palm automatically and _pushing_ it down. Magic burst outward, then sprang back. A burst of sound followed.

And Harry opened his eyes to find that all of the classroom furniture was back where it was supposed to be. He was shocked for a few long moments; he gaped at the room at large and wondered at the fact that his spell had _worked_.

A slow clap startled him out of his thoughts. Harry turned his bewildered gaze to the Defence Professor.

"I… I did it," he murmured, looking around him with an utterly confused expression, "And… I'm not sure how."

She laughed – another wonderfully feminine tinkle that sent pleasant tingles rippling through him – and said, "Well, I do hope you find out about the how. And soon.

"But for now, Harry, well done. These are not words I say often, so I hope you realise the sheer extent of your inner abilities that invoke such praise."

"Thank you," Harry stuttered.

"Come," the Professor said, gesturing to him, "Walk with me to the Hall."

Harry obeyed, and they walked out of the classroom, into the corridor beyond. He could not help but notice the sound of her heels snapping against the stone and wondered how she walked so effortlessly in high heels.

"So," Narcissa asked him, her tone almost playful, "I presume you submitted your name for consideration."

"For the tournament?" Harry asked Narcissa (and he wondered when he had started calling her _Narcissa_ in his head, in lieu of _The Professor_ ). He shrugged and nodded. "Yeah," he said, his tone betraying his embarrassment.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully to herself as they fell into companionable silence. Harry watched the portrait of an old witch with warts pass them by, before he turned to Narcissa and asked, "I guess you're rooting for Mal… er… Draco?"

Narcissa gave him a flat look and Harry grimaced, wondering if he had overstepped his bounds – he reminded himself that despite her presence being less intimidating than it was when they had first met, she was still the same cold, harsh, secretive woman.

Her reply, however, warmed her to him again. "Of course I am," she said mildly, "And I believe he has a stellar chance of being selected."

"Oh?"

Narcissa smiled at him. "Time for a brief detour into history, I suppose," she said, "While most charms and spells that were disinterred within that goblet have long since been lost to time, most experts agree upon the basic nature of the artefact – the Goblet of Fire selects from its pool of candidates based on a single, if elusive, quality that gives even the Sorting Hat pause. _Potential_. Or rather, the affinity that wizards and witches have towards magic.

"Nearly all of the Triwizard Tournament Champions of the past went on to become powerful witches and wizards, which more or less confirms the end goal of the Goblet's mysterious selection mechanism – power, coupled with potential."

"Ah," Harry said, his heart both sagging with relief, and with disappointment, "So mostly Sixth or Seventh Years, then."

"It's very likely," Narcissa admitted, "Most Sixth and Seventh Years have come into their own in terms of magical prowess. But I believe you're looking at it the wrong way – it's not prowess that matters here, but _potential_."

"I see," Harry said, not quite grasping what Narcissa was getting at.

They moved past a staircase and descended the second set of stairs they encountered, walking towards the Entrance Hall.

"I must confess, Harry," Narcissa said with a frown, "I read a lot, and I believe I know much that is not known to the average witch or wizard; therefore, if there is one thing I absolutely loathe, it's the idea of being kept in the dark about something.

"So imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon something that was… unknown to me," she said, frowning at him.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her, wondering where she was going with this.

"What…" she asked, with an eyebrow arched elegantly, "… what did Mister Finnegan mean by the word… Milf?"

Harry nearly choked on his own tongue, but noticed, much to his relief, that they were at the Entrance Hall.

Narcissa, however, had no inclination to show him mercy and merely waited near the double doors, her eyebrow still arched expectantly.

"It's… slang," Harry said weakly, not quite able to keep the blush on his face from surfacing, "Er… it's not good slang either."

"I see," Narcissa echoed, though it was clear from her voice that she still did not understand. "In that case," she said stiffly, "Ten points from Gryffindor, in retrospect."

Harry winced. Narcissa smirked at him, then paused, her eyes sweeping over him in a way that was almost… wistful.

"And going back to your candidacy for Championship… as much as I dote on my son," Narcissa said in a voice that was barely above a whisper and Harry stiffened almost unconsciously as she drew close to him, "I'm also rooting for one other. Ten points _to_ Gryffindor, for your display of power in the classroom."

Her fingers brushed over the skin of his knuckles as she walked through the double doors of the Entrance Hall and into the Great Hall beyond. Harry, on the other hand, stood rooted to the spot, his skin tingling with the memory of her touch.

* * *

Harry sat down at the Gryffindor table with a grateful look at Hermione, who had been kind enough to save a seat for him. "Thank you," he said as he sat down, then winced as he noticed that everyone was staring at him.

"So," Seamus ventured, "Did you know Harry could turn this red?"

"Nope," Dean said, "Had no idea. He looks like a tomato."

"And why do you look like a tomato, Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice dripping in false cheer.

"I ran all the way here?" Harry offered weakly.

"Fair enough," Seamus said, "Though those Defence detentions are looking mighty suspicious now."

"I'd say," Hermione rejoined.

"Aw yeah," Dean said, leaning back in his chair, "Harry Potter scores with the hottest teacher in town…"

"Oh, please," Harry scoffed, "And by the way, Seamus, you cost Gryffindor ten points just now."

Dean chortled, and Hermione raised her eyebrows as Seamus spluttered indignantly.

"I assume it's for his use of a particular filthy, disgusting, misogynist word at the end of class," Hermione said.

"Yes," Harry snapped, still glaring at Seamus, "And for your information, the reason I'm this red is because she _asked me what you meant by it_ , you buffoon."

Neville and Ron, who had been listening to the conversation joined Dean in laughter; even Hermione's eyes shone with mirth. Seamus, on the other hand, looked torn between amused and embarrassed.

A few moments later, though, after a bit of spluttering on Seamus' part, and a bit of ribbing on the others', they separated into smaller groups, falling into easy conversation with one another.

"Did she give you another detention?" Hermione asked in a low voice, "Because it would be really unfair if she gave you one in his place."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "Hermione," he said with a sigh, "I don't think they were ever meant to be detentions."

Hermione smirked triumphantly. "I knew it," she said, "You never really resented her enough for the number of detentions she gave you; that was more than enough of a clue."

"Yeah," Harry said, "It's more… Remedial Defence."

"Remedial?" Hermione asked incredulously, "Harry, you're the best student in that class!"

"Extra class?" Harry offered.

Hermione fixed him with a very deliberate, firm look that made him squirm uneasily.

"You _will_ teach me everything she has taught you," Hermione said firmly with a manic glint that made Harry gulp.

"A fair bargain," he said mildly. Hermione and he stared at each other for a while, then chuckled at once.

And then the lights grew dim, the Goblet blazed and the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts stood up in his seat, indicating that the time had come for the Goblet to select the Triwizard Champions.

The entire Hall seemed to inhale at once, and an excited buzz ran the length of the room as the students tensed. The Headmaster walked around the staff table, and stood beside the ancient Goblet, the flames atop which were turning red. Harry noticed both Karkaroff and Maxime lean forward in their seats, their eyes shining with excitement.

The flames hovering over the ancient chalice blazed red and spat out a piece of parchment. Albus Dumbledore seized the parchment with his right hand, smoothed it out, and read, "The champion for Durmstrang – Viktor Krum!"

"HELL YES!" Ron roared as the entire school, including the contingent of Durmstrang students, applauded Krum's selection. Harry's ears practically rang with the squeal of all the women on the Gryffindor table – with the Gryffindor Chasers being the most raucous.

Harry grinned, though he could not help but feel a bit envious of the wizard who was apparently possessed of amazing talent on both a broom, and with a wand. The subject of all the applause though, merely stepped up from the Slytherin table and trudged over to the Headmaster without so much as a shadow of a smile on his face. He was graciously directed to a small room aft of the Great Hall.

Just as the applause died down, and the Hall settled into another round of excited whispers, the Goblet spat out yet another parchment.

"The Champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore proclaimed, "Fleur Delacour!"

The applause was once more resounding; only, this round seemed to be led by the men at the Ravenclaw table as a familiar young woman at the same table stood up with unearthly grace, with her pouty lips curled upwards in a smirk.

"It's _bouillabaisse_ girl, Ron!" Harry cried, slapping Ron heartily on the back, much to the redhead's chagrin. Hermione glared at the two of them, while Dean, Seamus and Neville laughed.

Each table that the beautiful girl passed broke out into hoots and catcalls; eventually, she too was directed into the small room.

"They're all final-year students, aren't they?" Hermione shouted into his ear, over the booming applause.

Harry nodded. He turned to Hermione and said in a more sedate voice, just as the applause died down, "Yeah, but the two schools only brought a handful of their lower years anyway."

Hermione had a thoughtful look in her eyes, then she grimaced and jerked her head towards Ron. "I… er… okay, do you think we should do something about… your friend?"

"He's your friend too," Harry told her with a grin as he turned towards Ron, only to see the redhead hyperventilating in his chair as the whole of Hogwarts waited with bated breath for the announcement of the final Champion.

Ron's hands were clasped tightly around the edge of the table; Harry absently noticed that most of the upper years were similarly tense. And personally, Harry surmised that one of the Weasley twins, or Angelina stood a far better chance at getting through to the tournament than Ron or himself, though he would never voice that particular opinion out loud. He looked thoughtfully at Hermione – he knew that she, with her prodigious talent and powerful magic, could stand a chance of being selected as well. And he smiled as he imagined the Draco Malfoy's face if Hermione ever became Champion.

The Goblet hissed. The last parchment spat itself out and swam lazily in the air currents that drifted up from the chalice. Albus Dumbledore snapped up the parchment with long fingers at once. The Headmaster glanced at the parchment and his lips burst out into a smile. The whole of Hogwarts tensed and held its breath as one.

"The Champion for Hogwarts," the venerable Headmaster proclaimed, "Harry Potter!"

 _Wait, what?_

Harry reeled and the entire room blurred; the applause that broke out was muted in his ears. His entire table rose at once, cheering, and he rose automatically, despite being frozen in utter shock. Dimly, he noticed a few boos and jeers emanating from the Slytherin table.

He gaped up at the Head table – and to his surprise, his eyes affixed themselves onto Narcissa Malfoy, who had a faint smile on her face. He noticed McGonagall laughing to herself – a rare sight. And the ever-present calm gaze of the Headmaster was absent as he smiled proudly at Harry.

"Harry," Hermione said in an exasperated voice, as she pushed him forward. He turned to her in surprise, and her gaze was both proud and wistful at once.

She smiled, though, and the wistfulness disappeared, only to be replaced entirely with pride and joy, for his sake – and her smile awakened _something_ within Harry that he had once thought was gone forever. The idea that _someone_ cared. That _someone_ was proud for him. That _someone_ wanted him to succeed. No Uncle Vernon to frown at him, no Aunt Petunia to berate him for handing in a report card that was better than Dudley's. Just Hermione, her proud smile, and the affection that his teachers held for him.

Harry stood up straighter, nodded to her with the beginning of a smile blooming on his face; he made his way past the Headmaster and into the Champions' Room.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, people! I certainly appreciate them. Hope you're all enjoying this story, because I certainly like writing it. And I'm glad my rustiness at writing doesn't seem to bother most of you._

 _Also, some of the feedback had to do with Harry's slow progress - actually, I think I'm pushing him forward too fast; he's not quite powerful, but he may be getting there a bit too rapidly. But then again, if I went any slower, this story simply wouldn't get off the ground - I'm trying to find a sort of balance between his canon persona, and that of powerful warlock. And I'm trying to portray Narcissa much as the original author did - a sort of a cross between mentor and attractive friend, though I admit that I place more emphasis on the former._

 _A minor note to avoid confusion and a warning - I'm changing the canon prophecy and its implications drastically. It's no longer a clean neither shall live while the other survives thing - this is a bit more convoluted, and so, those who loved the elegant simplicity of the original may hate this new one. But yeah, the prophecy that prompted Voldemort to go after little Harry is the one Remus says above._


	5. The First Task

_A/N: Thank you all, for the reviews! I really appreciate each and review that comes in, and they help tremendously in terms of motivation. Changing tracks a bit, I was a bit dismayed by the comments regarding Hermione - I didn't think I'd shown her as repulsive at all. She may be a bit manic concerning anything new, but I don't really see her as overbearing or interfering. So I've tried to course correct in this chapter_

 _Also, a warning - those of you that expect smooth sailing for the protagonist should abandon that idea as this story unfolds. Harry's not going to come out on top all the time, and he may be outclassed by certain situations._

 _Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to J K Rowling. This work is not intended for profit. And many thanks, really, to the original author of this story - several of the ideas contained may have been tweaked, but they're mostly his._

* * *

With exultance and anxiety warring within him, Harry walked, with leaden feet, to the Champions' Room. He stared at the large oaken door for a moment, wondering at the realisation that he had never noticed this particular room before, and imagined that the room had been created specifically for the Tournament. He then shook himself from his untimely speculation, opened the door with a mighty shove and stepped into a surprisingly cosy, luxurious space.

The room was not well-lit, though a fire burned in an alcove within the room. The fireplace was decorated in regal fashion with wood-panelled, metal tipped frames that were engraved with a fascinating, shifting tableau. The two older Champions stood next to the fire, and their silhouettes were impressive against the blazing flame.

Fleur Delacour turned towards him expectantly, and Harry noticed, not for the first time, how stunning the girl really was.

"Well?" she asked in heavily accented English, "Do zey need us back out? Where is ze Hogwarts Champion?"

Harry felt mildly insulted at the notion that she considered him an errand-boy, but he was too nervous to voice his indignation.

"He is champion," Viktor Krum grunted from his luxurious seat right next to the fire.

There was a very awkward pause, whence Harry shifted uncomfortably and Delacour stared at him in astonishment.

"Zis is ze Hogwarts Champion?" Delacour asked, her voice tinged with incredulity. Harry felt a faint swell of indignation rising within him. "Zis _leetle_ boy?" she asked faintly.

Harry grit his teeth, but he merely looked away from her, clamping down upon any bitter words that may have spilled forth – though it was not a difficult task. He almost agreed with her; his nomination had been a distant fantasy, but now that he had been selected, he found himself vulnerable to self-doubt; he was aware that his magical education was far behind that of his competitors.

"He is not some boy," Viktor said, and Harry watched the famous Bulgarian warily from the corner of his eye. "It is _him_ ," Viktor said, pointing to Harry's head.

Harry was now truly annoyed and quickly moved the fringe of hair that usually spilled over his forehead to the left, but Delacour saw his scar anyway.

"Ah," she said with dawning comprehension, " _Le Survivant_."

Harry winced.

The blonde's gaze rove over him once more and she sniffed imperiously, setting him on edge again. "I'm not impressed," she said in a haughty tone, "I can only 'ope he makes for a… satisfactory competitor."

It was as if Harry wasn't even in the bloody room.

"Hogwarts and Beauxbatons have a history of excellent rivalry," Delacour continued, much to Harry's annoyance and he found it almost amazing that a girl so beautiful with so melodious and husky a voice could have such a hostile and aggravating presence.

"Our two schools 'ave taken 'ome ze prize most often," she concluded, with another sniff.

"Durmstrang has von too," Krum rejoined.

"We shall see," Delacour said, casting a disdainful look at Harry.

"Please to make your acquaintances too," Harry said sarcastically, and turned resolutely away from the two Champions.

And thankfully, before Delacour could inflict her annoying presence upon the room at large, the door burst open to admit a small crowd: the Heads of the three schools, McGonagall and two other gentlemen that he recognised as Bartemius Crouch and Ludovic Bagman – Ministry officials he had last seen at the World Cup.

Harry sighed as Crouch began elucidating the rules for the tournament; while the rules were delivered in a voice that was bland and monotonous, Harry's sigh was provoked by the force of Delacour's disdain, if her frequent glances at him were any evidence to go by; though Krum was a frequent victim of her superior gaze as well, which gave Harry some comfort.

The rules, eventually, seemed to boil down to – "No Cheating or External Help."

Then, Bagman, as if to compensate for Crouch's lack of enthusiasm, exuberantly went on to tell them how they would all go into the First Task entirely unprepared, with no prior knowledge, and of how awesome it all was. Harry was once again reminded of exactly why he had once felt relieved when he thought that he would never be chosen for the Tournament.

* * *

Harry felt magic ripple against his skin as an enormous blue wave streaked past him, inches away from his face; he jabbed his wand out wildly, casting a Stunner on sheer reflex. Harry grit his teeth at the sheer power of the spell; while he was intimidated, some part of him was slightly relieved at the idea of working past the stress that had settled upon him since he had been declared the school Champion two weeks ago.

His spell missed his opponent by inches as Narcissa stepped neatly to the side, her wand glowing as she cast yet another spell at him that he could not identify. He rolled under it instinctively and came up on the other side, wands blazing, only to be met by a wall of stone. He slammed into the wall, and staggered, dazed, even as Narcissa sent a fuzzy brown spell at him. Harry fell out of the way gracelessly, then shook his head to clear his dizziness and surged upward. A fiery whip burst forth from his wand and crackled towards Narcissa, who simply frowned and waved her wand contemptuously. His fire sizzled out, much to his dismay, and he was forced to duck and roll as a flare of white light blazed past him.

 _Bombarda_ , Harry thought desperately, his wand frantically carving runes into the air, and the space between him and Narcissa imploded. He was unnerved to find that the Malfoy matriarch already had her shield in place – he had given her far too much time to defend with his last spell.

Narcissa waved her wand once more and Harry cast an impromptu shield, only for his jaw to drop as a _massive_ battering ram burst out of thin air and barrelled towards him. He managed to get over his shock, drop his now useless shield and cast a frantic _Impedimenta_. The ram slowed, but not nearly enough, and just as it was inches from his face, his magic _cracked_ and responded instinctively.

A whip of _something_ coiled outward from him, around the ram and snapped outward. The meticulously carved, cylindrical conjuration that Narcissa had sent at him recoiled and sprung the other way; the Defence Professor was forced to vanish her own conjuration as it sped back towards her, though she was far too quick on the rebound. She flicked her wand and Harry instinctively conjured a shield again, only to frown as he noticed that her spell had apparently failed – no jet of light, nor any conjuration sprang forth from her wand. He took advantage of her momentary lapse and sent another fiery whip crackling towards her, but she dispelled it with barely any effort on her part.

"Not good _enough_!" Narcissa snapped as a Bludgeoning Hex from her wand caught him in the stomach and made him wheeze in pain. He barely avoided the second hex from her wand – he answered with a hex of his own, but she deflected his spell and it splashed harmlessly against the wall. Harry's wand whipped out, casting a cutting hex, but his actions were too slow for his liking as Narcissa blocked it with ease.

He tried to sneak a Body-Bind past her guard, but she repelled it far too quickly and responded with a conjured flock of birds that screeched and clawed at his face. He countered with bluebell flames, which burnt the flock and screamed towards Narcissa, but she stepped right through them with a faint smile on her face.

Harry frantically cast another hex, trying to prevent Narcissa from getting closer, but his hands were too slow, too heavy, too… tired. His limbs felt like they were weighed down by chains, and he just felt so weary… the jet of water that sizzled forth from his wand was barely more than a trickle instead of the usual, rushing fountain.

Narcissa's bludgeoning hex caught him in the stomach yet again, and he tumbled to the floor, weighed down by heavy limbs as he knelt upon the floor, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. His hands failed him and he fell onto the cold stone, which, strangely, felt immensely comfortable. If he could only rest for a bit… and sleep…

When he came to, he was lying on his back on the cold stone floor and staring at Narcissa, who bestowed a smug smile upon him.

"Ah," she said with a smirk that was at once annoying and alluring, "The Champion awakens."

Harry winced.

"Your skills have improved considerably," Narcissa said with a firm nod, "The wordless spells were almost effortless, but the instinctive grasp that you so often display over your magic has yet to enter your duels. Save for that moment where you dealt with the battering ram."

Harry nodded sourly – for some reason, he could never quite just _trust_ in his magic when he duelled. His wand motions and he were old friends; the runes that he carved in the air were instinctive and reassuring, though much like old friends who had long since exhausted their utility, but had become prominent fixtures by force of habit, he had a hard time letting go of the disciplined, ordered magic that he knew. Moreover, instinct, ironically enough, never really came to him as naturally as Narcissa alleged; he still had a ways to go before he could safely trust in the _rush_ and flow of magic within him to sustain his spell-casting.

That said, though, his unnatural weariness – so sudden and abrupt – made him wonder about its source. His stamina had improved in leaps and bounds since he had come to Hogwarts – running came to him naturally, and he had kept up his diligent morning exercise. Yet, nearly ten minutes into the duel, his limbs had felt as if they had suddenly grown to ten times their natural size.

He was tempted to ask Narcissa about it, but he knew she would not appreciate the bland, straightforward question; she preferred that he think, puzzle out reasons for himself and then ask her as a last resort.

The book on Druidic magic swam to the forefront of his mind and he smiled as he realised what had happened to him.

"You cast a Charm on me," Harry said, pointing an accusing finger at Narcissa, "Some sort of… sleeping charm?"

"Close enough," Narcissa said, and the approving smile on her face made Harry feel strangely warm, "And now, you truly understand why charms can be so versatile and frustrating when they're mixed into a duel, though not by virtue of their own power."

"Sort of," Harry admitted candidly, "But I'm still not so sure about the _why_."

"I'm not surprised," Narcissa said absently, twirling a rich golden lock of her hair in a manner that a distinctly distracting fashion, "The book was a starting point, I suppose, but the time I'd given you – two meagre days – was never going to be adequate in terms of puzzling out the very intricacies and inner workings of magic.

"But a small, impromptu test – the book does mention how Druidic magic interacts with plant life…"

Harry nodded quickly. "Yeah," he replied to her prompting, "The book claims that the druids never quite cast spells on trees. They apparently awaken the spirits within the trees. Though that's… a bit… fanciful."

"Indeed. It is a fancy, bombastic means of conveying a simple fact," Narcissa said dismissively, "Druids picked magic trees to experiment upon, replant and so on and so forth. Their magic did not act upon the trees. Instead they _influenced_ the magic around the trees themselves."

"I don't see the difference," Harry said flatly.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Have you heard of the Pendulum Wave? I'm led to believe that it is something that is demonstrated to primary school students in the Muggle World. If I were to place a row of pendulums, with each bob touching the other, and tapped the last bob in the row…"

"… Only the first ball will move," Harry completed, "I've seen it done in my science class."

"Excellent," Narcissa said, "Charms, or magic associated with Transfiguration, act in an analogous fashion. When you perform a normal spell, such as _Expelliarmus_ , you essentially push magic through your wand. The magic manifests itself as a visible spell, which then acts upon the target. If we were magical theorists, the proper terminology would be to refer to you as the caster, and your target as the object.

"A Charm, however, does not manifest itself as a _visible_ spell. And as you discovered to your detriment, charms are immensely powerful due to their inherent bias towards subterfuge – you wouldn't know a charm has been cast until it hits you.

"But going back to the Pendulum Wave analogy, when you cast a Charm, you're not pushing the magic out _through_ your wand. You're influencing the magic around you – you, as the caster, are creating a perturbation in the magic around you so that it acts upon the object. It's not so much a _push_ of magic that spills out from you as it is a _disturbance_ that you ignite so as to act upon the object.

"The flip-side, though, is that an active shield can block any Charm with ease. A perturbation in magic that acts upon the target is less powerful than a coalesced jet of magic that blazes forth towards your target," Narcissa concluded.

And much to Harry's surprise, he actually followed her explanation. The elusive sense of magic seeping past him, rather than through him, when he cast a Charm seemed to finally make sense. It did feel more like he was setting magic in motion, rather than trying to focus magic through him.

It actually made sense. And without a Hermione Granger in sight.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry smiled wanly to himself as he waved his wand and a Cheering Charm hit Hermione with barely an effort on his part; Narcissa had been right – charms were far less powerful than normal spells, and he took to them surprisingly quickly, though most Charms beyond second year still eluded his fledgling abilities. Tranfiguration, though, had proved to be more of a challenge. He found runes far easier to use, but he knew that with a fair amount of practice, he may just be good enough to get the hang of turning his needle into a nail without the use of explicit runes, if nothing else.

Not that he thought he would ever be good enough to beat Narcissa at her own game.

And so, he found himself in the middle of a deserted Common Room, guiding Hermione through the process of using instinctive magic. Hermione's inability to grasp the basic concepts of casting without Runes, though, elicited a fair amount of sympathy from him… and if he were being honest with himself, a not insignificant amount of relief – and that, in turn, suffused him with guilt at the idea that he might be revelling in his best friend's failure.

Though the guilt, in turn, was influenced by his _other_ best friend's admittedly selfish behaviour.

Hermione cast a _Finite_ on herself and looked at him in frustration. "I can't sense it," she said miserably. Her shoulders drooped and Harry immediately felt a wave of sympathy overtake him, as well as a sudden urge to rub her shoulder in comforting fashion. "I can't feel the bloody magic coiling around me, or whatever," she said.

"Language, Hermione," Harry chastised playfully though his heart was not in it.

Hermione _growled_ at him and Harry's playful smile died down at once; though he dared not tell her that she looked absolutely adorable when she was flushed and frazzled.

 _Good god, what was wrong with him?_

Harry shook his head to clear his traitorous thoughts about his best _platonic_ friend.

 _You wish_.

 _Dammit_.

"Harry?" Hermione asked uncertainly, "Harry? Are you… alright?"

"Yes," Harry said, flushing ever so slightly, "Did you… er… say something?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow at him, but chose to move on. "I'd appreciate any insight you may have to offer," she said.

"To be absolutely honest," Harry admitted, "I have no idea. I just… feel this sort of _rush_ when magic flows through me. It's… hard to describe, but it's there. And there's a pattern to it – the flow of, say, the _Expelliarmus_ , is different from that of a _Levitation_."

Hermione bit her lip, and Harry couldn't help but trace the manner in which her supple lower lip twisted ever so pleasantly when it was captured by her now near-perfect, pearly-white front teeth.

"Did you… er… do some work on your teeth?" Harry asked curiously. He did not remember this incisors being so… toned down.

Hermione winced. "Um," she said, looking awkward, "I… may have cast a few charms on them."

"I thought your parents wouldn't take kindly to that… ?" Harry ventured carefully.

Hermione looked askance at him. "I might not look it," she said, "But I _am_ a teenage girl."

 _Oh, I've noticed_. Harry winced at his internal thoughts. "And therefore, you are naturally vain," he rejoined.

"Well, if the ruckus Ron created over his dress robes is any indication," Hermione said, her tone becoming playful, "Us girls are naturally less vain than you _boys_."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Parvati Patil said as she brushed past a surprised Harry with a flirtatious wink, "Harry's growing into a fine young _man_ these days."

Hermione snickered as Harry blushed and tried, in vain, to come up with a suitable reply, but the attractive brunette was already halfway up the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

"And there's the befuddled, shy Harry Potter we all know and love," Hermione said, shoving at his shoulder as her snicker turned into a laugh.

"What the…?" Harry asked, still gaping at the stairs leading up the girls' dorm, "What brought that on?"

"Does the phrase _Hogwarts Champion_ ring a bell?" Hermione said, grinning at him. She clutched at her heart in dramatic fashion. "You have all the girls aflutter with excitement, Prince Charming."

Harry palmed his face tiredly. "Yeah, well," he said ruefully, "I could do with a few less girls trying to flirt with me. And a few more guys standing by me."

Hermione's grin fell off as she sighed in exasperation, though Harry could tell that her annoyance was not directed at him. "He's just… jealous," Hermione said, glancing at Ron, who was seated at the other end of the Common Room with Dean and Seamus, "He'll come around."

"Yeah," Harry said, "He'll come around alright when I fail miserably at the First Task. Then he'll realise that Harry Potter is just… the Boy-Who-Was-Pathetic."

"Stop that," Hermione snapped, clicking her fingers at him, "Believe in yourself, Harry. You're a far more capable wizard that you'd have yourself believe. That has never been more obvious than it is now."

"Huh?" Harry asked, recoiling.

Hermione rubbed at her forehead and scowled at him. "Oh, goodness," she mumbled to herself, "Save me from dimwits who don't know how powerful they are."

She looked at him and hissed, "Look at the manner in which you cast spells, Harry! You can do them without even _thinking_ about them – and don't you dare tell me that it's because you receive special tutorship from the Defence Professor! You're casting magic in a manner that is… instinctive! Harry… I've… read about this a lot since you started demonstrating this ability in class – this is not unheard of, but only the upper rung of witches and wizards have ever displayed such a capability. And the _extent_ of your ability – the ability to sense magic and cast almost any spell by instinct… that's just… it's not something even the _books_ mention, Harry! The ability to mould magic to your will with barely a thought is not something to sneeze at!"

"Give me a break," Harry said incredulously, "So I can cast a few first year spells without runes. Big deal."

"Oh for the love of…" Hermione said, "Fine. Be that way. But at the end of this Tournament, when you're holding that Cup and standing atop the shoulders of a legion of fangirls, you'd better be ready for the continuous stream of _I told you so_."

Harry goggled at Hermione and wondered at her sentence – there was no way her presumptions were correct. Narcissa could do what he did. And from what Narcissa had told him, so could McGonagall and Flitwick for their respective areas of magic. So Harry may be above average as far as potential, or an affinity towards magic was concerned, but to be considered alongside the likes of Albus Dumbledore…?

Harry could barely keep himself from laughing derisively at the sheer audacity of that line of thought.

"Right," he said, trying his best not to sound too sarcastic "And… _legion of fangirls_? Really?" he asked incredulously.

Hermione, to his surprise, did not blush. Instead, she laughed and winked at him, sending funny jolts through his chest in the process.

"Yes. And I can't promise I won't be among them," she said, and her voice turned… _husky_. Harry watched with his mouth wide open as she practically _sauntered_ across the Common Room and to the girls' dorm in a manner that was eerily reminiscent of Parvati.

Harry stared at her retreating back and wondered when the world had gone completely mad.

* * *

The morning of the First Task dawned cold and chilly. Harry glared at his breakfast, as if it were representative of the anxiety that was roiling in his stomach and cursed the fact that he had not caught a wink of sleep the previous night.

His heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribs as he pondered the idea of walking into the unknown with no preparation at all, and in front of a live, screaming crowd. He tried desperately to equate his present situation with his end-of-school adventures and his Quidditch matches, but the former tales were strewn with examples of external help, such as Fawkes' assistance with the basilisk and his mother's protection against Quirrell, and as for the latter, walking out with a team by his side was decidedly less intimidating than going it alone.

"I guess avoiding the topic doesn't really help you stop thinking about it," Hermione said wryly to Harry and patted him on the shoulder.

"No," Harry agreed, though he knew his voice was remarkably faint.

"Then we needn't avoid the topic at all," Hermione said nonchalantly, prompting Harry to grace her with a scowl.

"They haven't told you a thing about the task, have they?" Ginny asked him curiously.

"Oh? Not even your favourite Defence teacher?" Neville asked him slyly.

Harry stared at the round-faced boy. "I liked you better when you were the quiet, shy, stuttering boy lurking at the edge of our group," he said in a flat tone.

Neville chuckled in good humour. "Well, it's your own fault for being so welcoming and caring," he replied.

Harry groaned and slammed his head onto the table, causing quite a few heads to turn towards him.

"No, they didn't tell me anything," he said as Hermione patted him on the back, "And I'm not going to ask Professor Malfoy for help. She'd skin me alive if I solicited… assistance, especially from her."

"So the task is a complete unknown?" Ginny asked mildly.

"Yes," Harry said, raising his eyes blearily to meet Ginny's, "It is."

"That must be bloody terrifying," Neville interjected.

"Thank you, guys!" Harry said sarcastically, "This is a very motivating conversation!"

"The first task is meant to test your mettle against the unknown, Harry," Hermione, said with a dry smile, "Man up and face it."

"I think I lost my balls somewhere over there," Harry responded in an equally dry tone, jerking his thumb behind him.

Ginny, Hermione and Neville snickered. Though Hermione did give him a sobering look that was filled with such concern that he could not bring himself to stay annoyed at her.

"Harry!" Fred Weasley said, patting his shoulder lightly, "The main _man_!"

"The man with the _plan_!" George Weasley joined in.

"The Gryffin _dork_ ," Fred said.

"The Boy with the Fork!" George said and Harry glared between the fork in his hand and Fred.

"Dork?" he asked incredulously, "Really?"

"Had to rhyme something with fork," Fred said with a wink.

"No," Harry said, frowning, "George said his line after yours. It was his line that had to rhyme with… whatever you made up."

"Codswallop," Fred said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Anyway, we're not here to discuss rhyming protocol," George said.

"We're here to motivate you!" Fred completed.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Harry muttered.

"Relax!" Fred tried again, "Think of it as another Quidditch match!"

"Yes!" George said, "A Quidditch match, where all the rules are unfathomable."

"And where the opposition is completely unknown," Fred rejoined.

"And practically everything in the game is hidden from your sight," George added.

"And you're all by your lonesome with no team," Fred finished.

"I… don't think I can take much more motivation of this nature," Harry said drily.

Hermione huffed, unable to keep her concern from showing. "Harry," she soothed gently, "We're all joking. You'll be fine."

"Hermione," Harry retorted, "I'm a fourth year. My opposition comprises entirely of _Seventh Years_."

"Well," Fred said, "We've heard Beauxbatons has _eight_ years… so Delacour may be an _Eighth_ Year."

"Even better," Harry grumbled.

"Apart from the more experienced and far more knowledgeable competition though," George said, "You have nothing to worry about… apart from the whole unknown task thing."

"Stop it," Hermione warned, wagging a finger at the twins. Ginny flung the remainder of her tomato juice at the twins, sprinkling drops of red liquid all over them.

"Enough," the small, redheaded girl grit out.

"Alright, alright," Fred said, "Yeesh, you'd think we came here to demoralise him."

"Glad you're helping out, Weasley," came an irritatingly familiar and overly snide voice.

Harry buried his face in his palms and groaned. "Just what the doctor ordered," he sighed into his palms, "A Malfoy at breakfast."

The boy walked up his seat and flung a copy of the morning newspaper at him. "Just doing my duty as a conscientious student of the school," Malfoy said with a smirk, "After all, the expectations of England are riding upon you, Champ Potty. Live up to it."

Harry glared at the blonde, who pranced back to his table. He glanced down at the paper – folded so that it showed a prominent article printed in the Opinions section - and groaned again.

" _The Mysterious Tale of A Goblet, A Boy Hero and an Eccentric Headmaster_

 _By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet_

 _I was spurred to write this little opinion piece by the various responses I received to my reportage on the Weighing of the Wands, which accused me of paying too much attention to Quidditch star Viktor Krum at the expense of the Beauxbatons Champion and our very own home-grown boy hero._

 _A fair criticism. And I shall embark upon a spirited defense of my article and its pointed focus on Krum._

 _One of the reasons for the close focus is, of course, willingness on part of the Champions to divulge information. Of the three Champions, only the handsome Bulgarian Seeker seemed willing to consent to a one-on-one interview with yours truly; the Beauxbatons Champion seemed far more eager to converse with the reporter for Les Nouvelles Magique, though she did see fit to spare me a few minutes of her time for a few quick quotes. And to be fair, Krum himself seemed more at ease with our Bulgarian counterpart – Vulshebnata Zakuska. This behaviour could be explained away by ease of communication – I am honest enough to acknowledge my own linquistic limits. I do not speak much Bulgarian and my French, while passable, is not something I'd use for a professional interview. Moreover, Krum and Delacour speak halting English._

 _Harry Potter, on the other hand, seemed quite reluctant to speak to any of the reporters at all and seemed content to hide in the shadow of none other than Albus Dumbledore throughout the Weighing of the Wands. And I do not believe he is uncomfortable with the lingua franca of England._

 _At first, I believed this to be a case of nerves. But reflecting upon it later, I found the behaviour of our boy hero puzzling – a boy so famous, and one whose name has appeared in nearly every book written in the past decade about the Dark Arts, would surely have a better handle on how to deal with the media. A sudden case of media shyness, just after he was selected Hogwarts Champion, is incredibly strange. And worse, his eyes displayed no fear or unease – they displayed only cunning, wariness and the sort of caginess that follows when one has secrets to hide._

 _Harry Potter, in short, stood in a corner and took cues from his wizened old Headmaster, while the other Champions mingled and fielded questions with ease and admirable sharpness of mind._

 _I never quite saw the confident young English wizard deemed a worthy competitor by the Goblet of Fire. All I saw was a mere boy pretending to be a shrewd warlock. A cagey child with secrets to hide, instead of a brave young man brimming with talent that he could showcase to the world._

 _I confess that these observations do not necessarily lend themselves to a satisfactory answer at this point, but they paint a very disturbing picture of the local representation for so prestigious a tournament. And the questions that stem from such observations are numerous - is Hogwarts fielding a sub-par candidate? If all the other Champions are accomplished, final-year students, how is it possible that our Champion is a student, albeit a famous one, barely through his Fourth Year? And how, truly, did Harry Potter come to be selected?_

 _I believe there may be a clue hidden in the frequent interactions between the Headmaster of Hogwarts and Harry Potter, which paints a very sinister picture indeed – of favouritism, of tampering, of ill-gotten fame._

 _Tough questions, with no easy answers. I suppose all we can do is wait with bated breath for the First Task and hope, against all reason, that a barely-in-his-teens Harry Potter is indeed the best candidate Hogwarts – and, by way of its most prestigious school, England – has to offer._

 _Rest assured that whatever the truth may be, this reporter will be right where the story is, digging conscientiously to get to the bottom of it all._

 _*The views expressed in this column are those of the author. The Daily Propher forswears all legal responsibility for the printing of this article under Provision Four of the IWC Charter._ "

"What a bag of hot air!" Hermione growled, "No one… _no one_ … is going to believe this ridiculousness. There's nothing substantial in here, except for Skeeter's own speculations and conspiracy theories."

Harry looked blearily around the table and sighed as he saw that people were already passing around copies of the Daily Prophet and eyeing him ever so suspiciously. So much for _no one's going to believe this nonsense_.

It was Second Year all over again. And worse, there was no Ron to lean on this time around.

Harry inadvertently zoned in on Ron, who sat towards the end of the table with the other students from his year. For a moment, their eyes met and Harry imagined that Ron was looking at him with sympathy, but the next instant, Ron's lips curved into a smirk as he smoothed Seamus' copy of the Daily Prophet over the table.

Harry scowled and looked away at once.

"He such an _idiot_ ," Hermione snarled protectively.

"That he is," Ginny said with a shrug and glared at Ron.

"Harry," Fred asked curiously, leaning towards him while browsing through the offending article in the Prophet, "What's this about… the Weighing of Wands?"

"Just this thing I had to go to," Harry muttered distractedly, "Ollivander was there. He inspected our wands and told us they were in working order. The reporters were there too. Kind of redundant, but I suppose it's tradition…"

He trailed off as he realised that the twins and Neville were sniggering.

"Oh for the love of…" he snarled, though he couldn't help but betray a tiny smile at the words that had escaped him.

"I'm lost," Ginny said, staring at the twins. Hermione too had a blank look on her face.

Fred patted his sister's arm in a distinctly patronising manner and received a glare in return.

"We'll tell you when you're older, Gin-Gin," George said gently.

Neville guffawed.

"So was your wand in good working condition, Harry?" Fred asked innocently.

"Stuff it," Harry retorted.

"Aha," George said, "Was that what Ollivander said?"

"I'm quite curious about _Fleur_ 's wand," Fred said, "Was it bigger and prettier than yours?"

Neville, who had barely stopped chuckling, choked on his pumpkin juice.

Harry conceded defeat and decided to play along. "Delacour's wand had a curious core," he said, "It had an _'air from 'er grandmuzzer_." Harry attempted to mimic an airy French accent.

"Wand cores can be made from hairs?" Hermione asked, trying and failing to follow the conversation.

"Not that I've heard of," Ginny said with a frown, "Only parts of magical creatures."

"Well, it just so happens that Delacour's grandmother _is_ a magical creature," Harry said wryly, "Her grandmother is a Veela."

The table went very still for a moment.

"Ha!" Ginny exclaimed triumphantly, "That explains why you idiots gape at Fleur all the time! It's because she's Veela and not because she's actually good-looking!"

"Uh huh," Harry hummed sceptically. The French Champion may be a swotty little princess, but even he had to admit that Fleur Delacour had uncommonly beautiful features.

"I'm with Harry," Fred said, "Fleur's pretty damn gorgeous, even without the magic hair."

Ginny huffed and crossed her arms.

"So, Harry," George said, companionably slinging an arm over Harry's shoulders, "Just how magical was Fleur's wand?"

"Personally, I'm more interested in finding out if you really were avoiding Skeeter," Hermione said, ignoring the laughter from the boys.

"I really wasn't aware that I was avoiding anyone," Harry said defensively, "She asked me to get into a _broom_ _closet_ for an interview. I told her I'd rather not."

"Rita Skeeter probably just wanted to see your wand," Fred chortled.

"Anyway," Harry said loudly, "That sort of… er… spooked me and I… er… may have stayed out of the spotlight at that point."

"And you took refuge under Dumbledore's skirt," Hermione concluded. The group around Harry stared at her.

"Gah," George exclaimed after a beat of awkward silence, "The thought of Dumbledore in drag…"

"I suppose this is an appropriate moment to confess to being the perpetrator of one of the worst fashion crimes of the century, Mister Weasley," came a soft, but deep voice from behind them, "I tried out my mother's dress and articles once, when I was four and far too curious for my own good. I'm afraid I have never touched a feminine article since."

George turned crimson as they all spun around in their seats, only to be greeted by the sight of Albus Dumbledore himself.

"Uh… I was just… er… whoops?" George tried. The entire table, except for Harry, started chuckling.

"Sir?" Harry asked as his face turned ashen.

"I'm afraid it is time for the Champions to assemble, Harry," the Headmaster said. The Hall grew quiet and Harry could see his own and other tables straining to catch the Headmaster's words.

"Is it time to let us know what the task is, sir?" Harry asked warily.

"Mister Bagman shall do the honours," Dumbledore proclaimed, "He's waiting for you in the Champions' tent, just outside the Quidditch Pitch.

* * *

Krum and Delacour barely even greeted Harry as he entered the tent, though Harry supposed Krum's grunt could be construed as a greeting, of sorts. Bagman, on the other hand, was so effusive that Harry found it stifling to be held in the same tent as the portly man.

"Harry, ol' chap! Harry, Harry, _Harry_!" Bagman boomed, and Harry cringed at once, "Glad you're here!"

For a moment, Harry was reminded of Lockhart – albeit a very rotund version of the golden-haired dandy – cornering him in his Second Year.

"Did you contact your press secretary?" Bagman asked, now wielding a very spitting image of Lockhart's vanity.

"What?" Harry asked, entirely bewildered.

"Are you not going to counter Skeeter's defamation?" Bagman explained, "The article, my boy – that article today was atrocious!"

"No, I…" Harry began, but Bagman waved his explanation aside with a beefy hand.

"Ah, you have a lawyer, then," the man said jovially, "Well, my boy, if you ever need a hand, give me a call. I'm an old hand at countering defamation and pressing charges."

' _Geez, I wonder why_ ,' Harry thought. He gave a disgusted sigh and moved past Bagman, who had been distracted by one of his aides, to a corner of the Champions' tent. Unfortunately, the other Champions had heard his brief, one-sided conversation with Bagman, and seemed to believe that he wielded an army of lawyers. Krum grunted, in a manner that Harry imagined was sympathetic, and Delacour snorted, which left him smarting.

Mercifully for Harry, Crouch chose that moment to enter the tent and Bagman finally moved on to an explanation of the First Task.

"So, the First Task," Bagman said, rubbing his palms together, "Let's get started, shall we?"

Harry chanced a glance at Krum and Delacour, who looked as mystified as he was – he relaxed ever so slightly as he realised that the other Champions were as clueless as he was when it came to the First Task. The thought that they knew more magic than he did, however, gave him no comfort.

"The aim of this task," Ludo Bagman announced, "Is to get to the armour at the other end of the course."

There was a pause where the Champions stared at Bagman expectantly – a stare that turned incredulous as they found out that the meagre description Bagman had bestowed upon them was all that was forthcoming.

"Armour?" Delacour asked, "I do not understand, Meester Bagman."

"Ah," Bagman said mildly, "Armour. Battle robes. Same difference. At the other end of a short course. For now, I believe that shall be all. Keep your eyes and ears open in the arena!"

"Of course," Crouch interjected smoothly, "There are a few rules in place - you shall enter the course one after the other, turn by turn. You shall only have one attempt to get the battle robes. You shall use only your wand to run the course, and you may not use your wand, other abilities or tools to summon help of the animate, or inanimate, sort. You may not bring potions, charmed or enchanted objects to the task. And you shall only use what is available within the course, in addition to your wand, to counter any challenges that you face during the course of the First Task. And lastly, no magical being or beast may intercede on behalf of a Champion throughout the course of the tournament, except for the tournament organisers, who may enter a Task for the sake of rescuing a Champion from lasting injury or death."

"Like I said," Bagman told them, "Battle robes at the other end of the course. Get to them and you shall have completed the Task!"

"I'm assuming there will be something between us and the… battle robes," Harry surmised.

"That," Crouch answered brusquely, "Is for you to find out."

Harry's insides had turned to a terrified, coiling mush at this point, so he said nothing. He had never quite _waited_ for trouble to seek him out before – it always came _to_ him, and he barely got past them with his limbs intact, even with external help; he figured that his run of luck was due to run out soon.

Crouch pulled a small purse out of his robe pocket. He plunged a hand into it and pulled out a tiny slip of paper.

"Harry Potter shall be the first to enter the arena," Crouch proclaimed. Harry shuddered. Crouch ignored his reaction and plunged another hand in.

"Next, Viktor Krum," Crouch said, and turned his bland gaze to Fleur, "And Fleur Delacour shall be last."

Harry was surprised to see Delacour visibly relax. Krum nodded stoically. Harry could barely bring himself to move.

' _So much for emulating the famous British stoicism_ ,' Harry thought sardonically.

"Harry!" Bagman said in a voice that was irritatingly happy, and placed a fatherly hand on Harry's shoulder. He pointed to the opening of the tent. "Glory beckons!" Bagman proclaimed.

* * *

The first sensations Harry registered were the intense glare of sunlight and the burst of noise – the Weasley twins were at least partly right; this felt like an enormous Quidditch match. Only, his trusty broom was far, far away, and he was far, far outside his comfort zone.

His eyes adjusted quickly enough though, and he glimpsed the battle robes Bagman had described –it looked like no other set of robes Harry had ever seen before. The robes looked almost metallic, glinting fiercely in the sunlight, and had stark, spiked red pauldrons, gleaming silver gauntlets, and curved shoulder blades the colour of blood, all blending seamlessly with the one another. The chausses seemed to be made of interlinked plates of a material that Harry could not quite identify and were painted a dark forest green. The overall red-and-green getup was impressive and intimidating, all at once.

And the battle robes floated atop a pedestal at the other end of a narrow stone path barely fifty feet away from Harry.

Harry glanced around himself, wondering if he should just start, or wait for someone to yell _go_ , only to wish he had not taken his eyes off the path. The stands that were usually placed around the Quidditch Pitch had been expanded and arrayed closely around the narrow path of stone, filled with students, reporters and quite a few dignitaries. The effect was intimidating and Harry's ears rang with the noise that seemed to hem him in from all sides; he felt himself tense as so many people observed and scrutinised his actions from such close quarters.

He looked around the path and noticed the massive stone walls to either side that rose twenty feet into the air. A shimmering barrier protruded upward, past the walls, and Harry surmised it was a shield of some sort. Avoiding the path, going around it or leaping over the stone walls was not an option.

"The Champion of Hogwarts, ladies and gentlemen!" Bagman proclaimed and the stands erupted with deafening cheers, making Harry wince at the noise. Cameras flashed away and he took deep, calming breaths to keep himself from hyperventilating.

"The objective, as some of you clever folks must have surmised, is the awesome looking set of battle robes at the tail end of the course!" Bagman announced, "The Champion who completes the task shall receive three entire sets of the battle robes!

"The Champion who performs best receives the best set, forged to withstand powerful jinxes, curses and most charms. The second best Champion shall receive a set made to withstand most standard charms and hexes. The Champion placed last shall receive robes that offer the barest of protection against minor spells and burns."

' _Great_ ,' Harry thought sourly, ' _Just fantastic_.'

"And all each Champion shall bring to the path is their wits, wand and a whole lot of courage!" Bagman boomed. There was a brief pause, whence the crowd's cheers died down. And then, Bagman boomed, "And with that, let the task commence!"

Two great gouts of flame roared into existence from the stone walls to either side of the path, and Harry was startled. The crowd roared, even as his heart beat wildly against his chest. Harry tried, desperately, to simply breathe, but the noise, the bursts of heat and the sheer pressure of expectations proved too much as he wheezed, as if in pain.

With great effort, he managed to put one foot in front of the other and advanced up to where the path started. He attempted to ponder the challenge and tried desperately to push his anxiety away.

Feeling a little silly, he cast a _Hominem Revelio_ on the path. Nothing happened; the path appeared to be just that – a non-magical cobblestone path – but there were metaphorical alarm bells resounding in his head. He cast a series of other simple diagnostic spells, but the path looked as inert as ever. The alarm bells ascended a pitch. He did not think the First Task would be as simple as walking across an old, walled cobblestone path and picking up a set of robes. The organisers may as well have announced a sale at Madam Malkin's and watch the Champions get through the throng of self-conscious teenagers that would have flooded the shop – that may have been more of a challenge than simply walking across a small course.

He jerked his wand up, flicking a pebble onto the path. The pebble clunked against the dull stone and Harry tensed, waiting for something to happen, but the result was anti-climactic. The path truly did appear to be inert.

The alarm bells were practically blaring in his head and he gaped at the path.

He cursed himself for not reading enough about diagnostic spells and for a moment, he envied Hermione's ability to devour multiple books and regurgitate the knowledge that she acquired from them. She would probably have known exactly what magic the path was imbued with and what to cast upon it so as to force it to reveal its secrets to her.

As it was, Harry had determined that the path was not Charmed, Transfigured, or affected by malicious Potions. That left a whole host of possibilities that he was entirely ignorant of.

He cast a blasting spell at the path, but his spell splashed harmlessly upon a set of powerful shields that shimmered into being a millisecond before it made contact with stone.

Harry stared incredulously at the shimmering blue shields that absorbed his curse with nary an effort and wondered how his diagnostic spells had missed so powerful a shielding charm as had been cast upon the course. He cast a Finite, a few other jinx and charm negating spells and then cast another blasting hex on the path. The shields shimmered into being again and showed no signs of weakening as they stopped his spell once more.

He sighed. There was no other option that he could see – he had exhausted his admittedly limited knowledge of diagnostic and magic-negating spells – apart from running the course that had been set before him. With a great deal of anxiety, he gingerly placed a foot upon the path.

For a moment, he almost sagged with relief as the path did not react at all – then, a massive grey _something_ leapt out from the side, barrelling towards his face, and Harry reacted instinctively. His wand flashed to the side and the grey burst shattered, showering him with bits of stone and rubble.

Harry backed away frantically and saw a ruined pillar of stone recede seamlessly back into the cobblestone path.

' _Holy hell_ ,' he thought incredulously, ' _What the hell did they cast on this damn thing?_ '

His brain raced to come up with an explanation. Harry surmised that while the path itself had been protected from spellfire, anything it conjured was not quite as immune as he had thought it was. To test his hypothesis, he gathered his magic, whipped his wand outward and brought it down in a sweeping arc. A massive pool of magic smashed into the course – he felt the blue shields shudder as his spell crashed into the path, but they did not die. Harry panted with exertion, but noticed, with some satisfaction, that the crowd had gasped at his show of power.

Though he still had no idea what to do about the path. The obvious solution presented itself to him – he was expected to charge onto the path and deal with whatever the path conjured and put in his way. He tried to think of other plans and contingencies, but nothing occurred to him. He supposed he _could_ collapse the stone walls onto the path, but he had noticed how the blue shield that hummed over the path seemed to extend towards the walls as well.

There truly was no other option – he had to make do with navigating the course all by himself.

He inhaled once – a deep breath that was meant to be calming and soothing but turned into an anxious, rattling, inward implosion of air. And then, with a violent burst of speed, he lunged onto the path, simultaneously pushing blasting hexes down around him. The pillars of stone that arose crumbled into nothing.

And to his dismay, as he took another step, he discovered something else bloom out of the path – conjurations far more impressive that mere stone pillars. Three large grey wolves burst out of the path, carved from the same stone, and leapt at him. He managed to smash one right into the stone wall to one side with his magic, but the other almost bit down on his right elbow, though he managed to avoid the bite with reflexes that he did not even know he possessed. He winced at the _snap_ of the massive jaws millimetres away from his flesh, and blasted apart the conjuration that had begun to rise from its collision with the wall. He turned around to face the other conjuration, which snapped at him again, only to receive a _Bombarda_ to its face.

A massive _something_ slammed into his back and Harry cursed himself for losing focus of his surroundings – Narcissa would have had his hide for his lack of field vision. He whipped around with a _Confringo,_ but it only tore a chunk off the enormous bear that had charged into him.

The creations of the path were getting bigger.

Harry backed away frantically as the bear and a massive bull, both carved from grey stone, charged at him. He jabbed his wand forward, his magic sweeping outward at his command, and managed to _push_ the bull into the bear.

To his dismay, the path had conjured yet another creature – a griffin made of stone.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Harry realised that his current strategy simply was not working well enough – he had to resort to another sort of magic. He did not know of any charms that could go up against such terrific conjurations, so he resorted to the only other magical art he knew well. He whipped his wand out, frantically carving out the runes that would transfigure the bear, which had begun its charge, but his arm simply refused to obey.

He cried out in pain as a sharp _something_ caught his wand-arm in a pincer grip – he turned around and discovered, to his dismay, that he hadn't quite watched the latest conjuration closely enough. The griffin had taken to the air, landed behind him and had caught his arm in its beak.

With no other recourse, he cracked his unarmed left fist right into the griffin and his magic _twanged_ in desperation. And to his surprise, his fist came out unscathed as cracks began to surface all over the avian conjuration. The grip on his hand loosened ever so slightly and Harry desperately tried to pull his arm away, but the bear crashed into his mid-section and he felt his breath escape him in a wheeze.

A flash of grey burst into the edge of his vision, followed by a massive spike of pain and the world turned to black.

* * *

The world went from black to grey to drab white. The familiar scent of Pepper-Up wafted up Harry's nostrils as he emerged from blissful sleep with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Mister Potter," came the exasperated, familiar voice of Madam Pomfrey, "We really should stop meeting like this."

Harry gasped out a rueful chuckle as he tried to come to grips with his reality, which blurred into focus as someone placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"For the life of me," the nurse huffed irritably, "I have no idea what the organisers were thinking! Conjurations, made of _stone_. With no _cushioning_. And with claws and fangs and wings and sharp talons!"

Harry tried desperately to form a question, but the throbbing in his head was far too much and he laid back on the bed with a sigh, willing his headache to subside.

Pomfrey, though, was having none of it – she forced his head upright and forced a couple of gulps of bitter potion down his throat. He coughed and spluttered at the sour taste as the mediwitch bustled away.

To his relief, the headache began to subside and Harry found himself coherent enough to realise that he and the nurse were not the only occupants of the Hospital Wing. A very prim-looking, if concerned, Hermione Granger sat comfortably beside him.

"This looks familiar," Harry said mildly.

"Like she said," Hermione said with a smile that was not entirely devoid of humour, "We really must stop meeting like this, Harry."

Harry gazed at the other beds and winced as he saw that Viktor Krum lay on the bed next to his, evidently in the grips of magically induced slumber. Beyond the Durmstrang Champion's bed was a curtained off area that obviously held another patient.

"Fleur," Hermione said quietly, following his gaze, "She… it was _really_ bad."

Harry stared inquisitively at Hermione, who shook her head ruefully.

"Madam Pomfrey said you'd be fine in a while," Hermione told him gently, "I don't think you'd have to stay the night."

"That's a first," Harry said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"You did have a concussion though," Hermione said with a concerned frown, "Not a laughing matter, Harry. It's a serious injury in the muggle world."

"So…" Harry said, trying to remember the events that had led him to this juncture, only to slump into the bed as he remembered… the First Task.

"I choked," he rasped, "I… _choked_."

"Harry…" Hermione began, but Harry dismissed her with a violent wave of his hand.

"The other Champions," he said at once, even as his gut clenched painfully, "Did… did they…?"

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Yes," she said tersely.

Harry thumped his head back onto the pillow as he tried to swallow his immense disappointment, but his throat felt far too heavy and a pang shot through his chest.

"I… got the worst set of battle robes, didn't I?" he asked, and his voice was painfully flat.

Hermione made a sudden gesture towards him, as if to console him, but he flinched and she desisted. Her shoulders drooped.

"Spill it, Hermione," Harry growled, recognising his best friend's reticent posture.

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice soft and soothing, as she looked worriedly at him, "You… did not complete the task. You were… disqualified. You did not receive the robes."

The lump in Harry's throat grew heavier and he could not bring himself to speak. He had failed – he had failed his school. His _home_.

"Krum placed first," Hermione said, though he had the impression that she was babbling as she wrung her hands helplessly, "Fleur was second."

"I… see," Harry choked out. He placed his hands over his chest and realised that his heart barely pulsed in his chest.

"The griffin," he said tersely, "Did it…?"

"No," Hermione said, pre-empting his question, "The bull sort of… it hit you."

Harry was furious, sad and annoyed, all at once.

"Bet it was real funny," Harry muttered sourly, "Seeing a great big bloody bull charge into Harry Potter. Skeeter must be having a field day."

"No," Hermione murmured, "It was pretty scary when you… I was… I didn't… when those _monsters_ surrounded you and you were… I was _scared_ , Harry. It was terrifying."

Harry merely took a deep, shuddering breath as he stared up at the ceiling blankly.

"Harry," Hermione said, "Please don't do this. You are four _years_ below the other Champions in terms of magical education…"

"Whatever," Harry snapped irritably, but he couldn't bring himself to feel much other than disappointment and self-pity.

Hermione tried, desperately, to draw him into small talk, but Harry refused – his mind was far too caught up with regrets, with the curse of hindsight, with what he could have done differently and how he should have approached the path. Perhaps if he had led with transfiguration… or if he had been better with Charms, or…

Harry realised, with a clenching sensation in his gut, that he had never failed in such fashion before… not like _this_ – the only other time he lost a contest since he had set foot in Hogwarts was a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff; and he could use dementors flooding the pitch as an excuse for that particular loss.

He had lost. And worse, he had lost fair and square. His legend had come crashing down, and it _hurt_ more than he had thought it would.

He realised, with a sinking heart, that he did not want to be mediocre at all.

He was almost grateful when Hermione had to leave before curfew. Harry waited an hour longer – he could not bring himself to bear the crowds that would stream to the Common Rooms after dinner - and followed suit, grateful for the empty corridors and halls. He took no detours and headed straight for his bed in his dorm, mercifully uninterrupted by students and staff members.


End file.
